


Manitou

by Dryad



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Graphic Violence, M/S-something, NC17, Please Don't Hate Me, Season Six-ish, Sex, casefile, graphic depictions of death, may be triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:10:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's perfect weather for frolicking with a serial killer!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **PAY ATTENTION TO THE TAGS. ******
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **Seriously. Not even joking.**  
> **
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **Re-read them?**  
> **
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **Yeah? Then come on in.**  
> **
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **PS: very slightly edited from previously posted version.**  
> **

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For the children who will lead the future,   
> this is a prayer: 
> 
> stop, stop making the murder of soul  
> (soul) 
> 
> DJ Krush/Murder of Soul/Krush

December  
Lincoln, Vermont  
early afternoon 

 

Mulder crouched next to the body, wondered if Jennifer Dubois had been capable  
of understanding what was happening to her when her face and scalp had been  
flayed off. Her eyes were blue or hazel, maybe gray. It was hard to tell with  
the white film covering them. The cavity which had once housed her intestines  
and internal organs was shockingly bright, redder than red, redder than  
cranberry and carmine and scarlet, all words too poor to describe the color  
corroding the snow around and beneath her. Waxy pearls of yellow fat were  
visible along the cut flaps of skin. The salmon pink stain in the snow was  
beautiful in its own strange way, like Copper Canyon at sunset. What made it  
even more disturbing was the fact that he found beauty in it at all.

Finding beauty in death of this nature...sometimes he thought he was sicker than  
those who committed these crimes. Yet he reminded himself that the best way of  
finding a killer was to become one in all but deed. Nonetheless, danger lay  
there as well, his own demons clamoring to be set free inside his skull.

"Pardon me, are you Agent Mulder?"

He frowned and stood, still looking at the body. Although the crime scene  
photographer had already taken pictures from every conceivable angle, it was  
always possible that they'd missed something important. After all, northern  
Vermont was part of the boonies. Northern Vermont was also damn cold, the dead  
leaves on the beeches rattling like fingerbones in the frequent gusts of wind.  
He was grateful that the only things he could smell were pine and the oncoming  
storm. 

"Agent Mulder?" 

He turned, stepped over a line of day-glo orange evidence markers, luminous in  
the wan light, painfully brilliant against the trampled snow. They were the  
wrong tone, not harmonizing with the salmon pink. The man speaking was well  
bundled up in a black State Police jacket, tan trousers, gloves, Sorels, and the  
ubiquitous flat brimmed hat.

The man held out one hand. "Sheriff Whitlow. I'm glad you're here. I would've  
met you at the office, but my son's just gone into surgery."

"Nothing serious, I hope," Mulder said, shaking the other man's hand. God, he  
hated the banalities, especially when there were more important things to  
consider.

"Appendectomy," Whitlow nodded once and flipped a hand towards the body. "Have  
any ideas?"

Mulder glanced back, shrugged. "It wasn't quick. She was alive throughout most  
of it," Had her vocal cords broken under the strain of her screaming? Had she  
felt the cold, or had she been too terrified to notice? Had she prayed to God  
to save her? Had she asked for her mother? Had she been able to focus on  
anything else save her impending death? Had her killer warmed his hands over her  
entrails during the long black night? Had he been splashed when her bowels  
voided?

Whitlow swallowed hard. "D'you think the cold helped any?"

"I don't know. It's certainly possible." 

"Actually, it's quite doubtful," Scully said, approaching Mulder, breath  
steaming in the air. "The cold, combined with blood loss would have numbed her  
considerably. But the initial adrenaline rush and shivering would have made the  
pain much, much worse. Hopefully she bled quickly enough to lose  
consciousness."

"Christ," Whitlow shook his head in disbelief. "Whoever's doing this has got to  
be insane."

Mulder shared a look with Scully. It was the same in every small town in every  
rural state. He had to admit to himself that despite all he'd seen,  
occasionally he was of the same opinion - it just didn't seem real, that people  
could this to one another, not outside of a war. 

Whitlow must have been thinking the same thing, for he said, "I got drafted the  
day I turned eighteen. Did my tour in Viet-nam, saw things," he trailed off,  
came back to the moment with haunted blue eyes. "Saw things. Never thought I'd  
see the like in my home town."

"The trick is lock it up in some small corner of your mind," Mulder said gently.  
Scully's bright gaze swept his face, but he kept his attention focused on the  
sheriff. "Throw away the key."

"Is that what you do?" Whitlow countered.

Smart man. Mulder didn't answer. 

"What do you know about Dubois?" Scully asked, writing in her field notebook.

"Well," Whitlow motioned them back to let the troopers wrap Dubois in plastic.  
"She was twenty-nine, shared a house with Elaine Weschler and April Mahoney.  
Moved here after dropping out of Hampshire College when she was twenty-three.  
Made a living making and selling 'authentic' Indian art at various fairs both in  
and out of state. She's also got a stall down in Roanoke's, in the Baker  
Building. Mother deceased, father unknown, no siblings."

"We'll want to talk to Weschler and Mahoney as soon as possible," Scully said.

Mulder watched the troopers struggle with the frozen body, let Scully do all the  
talking. There was no elegance in death. Dubois had been brought into the  
woods, tortured, killed, sprawled over a log face up, limbs akimbo, both sets of  
intestines spread like butterfly wings on either side of her. Spleen, lungs,  
kidneys and liver missing. No attempt made to conceal her. Birds and small  
animals had nibbled on her exposed skin. The troopers had to break off the  
intestines to fit her in the bag. And yet, for all that, the killer had taken  
his time, drawing the maximum amount of terror out of her. Scully's shocked  
tone broke into his thoughts. 

"When was Mahoney killed?" She asked.

Whitlow was glancing back and forth between the two of them in wary surprise.  
"Couple of weeks ago. I thought that's what you two were coming up here for  
when we got word of Dubois."

"How was Mahoney killed?" Mulder interjected, feeling that odd excitement in his  
backbrain. He ignored it, experience having taught him it was already working  
overtime. They were connected - he didn't know how, or why, but they were  
connected. They had to be. Vermont didn't see a hell of a lot of murders.

"Drowned," Whitlow said, following the other men back to the snowmobiles, snow  
softly crunching beneath his boots. "Fell through the ice in the Pond River  
shallows, apparently."

Mulder cast a quick look Scully's way - she'd caught it as well, although her  
face gave nothing away to those who didn't know her. "In December?"

Having reached the trail, Whitlow busied himself by climbing onto his  
snowmobile, turning over the motor while the body was loaded onto the sled of  
the snowmobile behind. "I'll let our coroner know where to find you as soon as  
she gets back in town."

"Sheriff Whitlow - "

"Agent Scully, I've got to get back to my boy. He wanted me to be there when he  
woke up. Now, if you'll excuse me - " Whitlow gunned the engine and took off,  
guided his Yamaha through the trees in a circle, around the sled and back onto  
the trail.

"What was that all about?" Scully asked, rubbing her gloved hands together.

Mulder sniffed, the mucus membranes in his nose drying instantly in the frigid  
air. "Got me. But whatever it is, something is definitely rotten in the state  
of Denmark."

"Agents?" one of the men called. "We're all ready to take you back now."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's just another day - There's murder in the air   
> It drags me when I walk - I smell it everywhere   
> It's just another day - Where people cling to light   
> To drive away the fear - That comes with every night"
> 
> Oingo Boingo/Just Another Day/Dead Man's Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iris Johanssen features in ['Scenes from a Murder Investigation: Interview'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/474777).

Although it was only three forty-five in the afternoon by Mulder's watch, dusk  
had already fallen and was rapidly approaching full night. Darkness combined  
with the pines shadowing the trail forced the snowmobile's headlights on. The  
forest was peaceful and very quiet beyond the headlights and the noise of the  
engines, mute witness to the horror of Jennifer Dubois' death. Funny, how the  
woods still had the power to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He  
felt like the trees were watching, holding back judgement to see if justice  
would be done. _Old_ trees. _Old_ spirits. Doing his best to huddle behind the  
driver, the wind bringing tears to his eyes, he made a silent vow to do his  
best. 

When they arrived back at the clearing by the side of the road, Sheriff  
Whitlow's truck was long gone. Mulder got off the Ski-Doo, cold and stiff, knee  
joints aching. He stomped blood back into his feet as he made his way to his  
rental car. God only knew how long it would take for the heater to get going, he  
just hoped it was sooner rather than later. Scully slid into the passenger seat  
after spending a few minutes with the troopers.

Mulder shifted into first and rolled onto the road. "How was your flight?" 

"Rocky. I don't even want to tell you how hairy landing at Burlington Airport  
was," she shuddered delicately. "Wish I'd been able to come up with you."

"Me too," Mulder answered, glancing at the dash to see if the heater really was  
going at full blast, or if it was merely some kind of Yankee joke played on  
flatlanders. "Where's your bag?"

"The deputy I got a ride in with said he'd drop it off at our hotel."

"Bed and breakfast if you please, Scully."

"Are you serious? Could there actually be some perks in this godforsaken  
state?"

Mulder half-smiled. "Come on, Vermont's not that bad."

"Mulder," Scully stared at him indignantly. "The last time we were here you got  
radiation poisoning."

"Could've been worse. No, seriously," he said at her astonished bark of  
laughter. "Vermont isn't exactly high on the violent crime list. Some years  
they don't have any murders at all."

"That means nothing."

"It does when there are two murders only a few weeks apart in the same small  
town. Not including Ted Bundy, Vermont's only had one known serial killer, Gary  
Schaefer, in the early 80's. And Audrey Hilley worked in Brattleboro for a few  
months after poisoning various members of her family in Texas. Be glad we're  
not in Maine."

"Good point. Never go to the state where Stephen King lives," Scully said, lost  
in thought. "What are we doing here, anyway? This case isn't exactly an X-  
File."

"It's busy work," Mulder said. He released a deep breath. "To be honest,  
Scully, I'm happy enough to have your plain, ordinary, garden variety murderer  
for a change."

She looked at him, said, "Because of Iris Johanssen?"

He shrugged. 

"The woman was a liar and a cheat, Mulder, a fraud. God only knows how she  
found out about your sister. She traded on your hope and gave you nothing by  
pain and disappointment in return."

He smiled bitterly, opened his mouth to speak.

"No, Mulder," She held up one hand. "She's not worth thinking about any longer."

"But," his smile faded. "what if - ?"

"No, no 'but's and no 'what if's. She lied."

Scully was, of course, right. It didn't make him feel any better.

Houses began appearing by the road twenty miles from where the body had been  
found, warm light spilling out of uncurtained windows, glimpses of families  
within, barns looming in the background. Lincoln itself was a blink-and-you-  
miss-it kind of town, the road turning into Main Street as it passed between the  
houses and shops on either side, then back into a rural highway past the elementary  
school. The usual accoutrements were there, though - a small laundromat, a cafe,  
bookstore, bank, general store, combo gas station, garage and volunteer  
firehouse. The post office, historical society, and state police offices were  
housed in the same brick building, an old church. 

"Here we are," Mulder parked in the Lincoln Inn's wide driveway, set the parking  
brake on the gentle incline - just in case. "I took the liberty of picking your  
room for you."

Scully gave him a Look before getting out of the car and pounding up the wooden  
steps of the wraparound porch. Mulder quickly followed, opened the front door  
and guided her into the foyer with a touch on the small of her back. Neither of  
them hung their coats up. 

The inside of the house was typically Northern New England, complete with white walls and  
the slightest draft coming in through the windowsills. Plain yet homey.  
Oriental carpets that looked like the real thing were on the floor, Turkish or  
maybe Egyptian, threadbare where people walked most frequently. Simple  
watercolors and charcoal sketches adorned the walls, and overloaded bookcases  
littered the public rooms. The furniture was well-used and unfussy. Chintz had  
been banished. The scent of woodsmoke and pine and cooked onions permeated the  
air.

"Scully, I hate to break it to you, but I took the room with the private tv."

"Mulder, you know I could care less." 

He'd chosen the room facing the street for himself, giving Scully the corner  
room at the back of the house, which overlooked fields and distant mountains.  
The room suited her, the poster bed with its quiet floral bedspread, dark, heavy  
dresser and matching vanity. Reserved. Feminine without being pushy. Neat and  
clean. Oh, and the mattress was feather soft. 

Scully sat on the bed and bounced, then headed for one of the windows. After a  
quick peek out, she turned to him, eyes bright, a little moue of pleasure on her  
lips. "This is almost worth forgiving years of fleabag motels."

"We aim to please, and just wait to you see the bathroom," he said. He led her  
back down the hallway, stepped aside. It was, he didn't doubt, her dream  
bathroom. An extra-long, white enameled, clawfoot tub lay along the wall, a  
handheld chrome shower unit hooked over one end. It looked big enough to  
accompany him. A multiplicity of soaps were in baskets around the room, and  
dried bunches of sweet-smelling eucalyptus hung on the walls. A floor to  
ceiling cubby was stuffed with fluffy violet towels. The toilet and sink were  
plain white porcelain, nothing fancy. In a major departure from the rest of the  
house, the room had been painted brick red, which rather than having the effect  
of heaviness, made it cozy, the kind of place that begged one to have a long  
soak at least once a week. 

"Mulder, we're never leaving." 

"I'm certainly glad to hear you like it. You must be Agent Scully," the owner  
of the voice leaned into the room.

"Scully, this is Mae Lincoln. She owns the Inn." 

Lincoln was a petite black woman in her 50's, slender in faded jeans and wool  
sweater with navy Scandinavian designs, silver feather earrings dangling from  
her earlobes, tight salt and pepper curls barely skimming her scalp. She wore red  
slipper socks on her feet. "As I was telling Agent Mulder earlier, you two are  
my only guests at the moment, so you've got the run of the place. Feel free to  
get anything from the kitchen that you want, I'm sure your hours are going to be  
very erratic. My room's the last on the left if you need anything."

"Thank you," Scully said.

"Mrs. Lincoln also runs the historical society," Mulder added.

"Mae, please," She said, nodding. "I'm the person to ask if you want the in-  
depth story of Lincoln. It's far more interesting than you think."

"Do you have any thoughts about the murders?" asked Scully.

"A few. Would you like some tea or coffee? I've got water on the boil as we  
speak," Mae said, heading downstairs. 

"Tea would be lovely," said Scully.

"They've come as a great shock. Things like that just don't happen here. Oh,  
of course we get hunting accidents and cars sliding on ice, and last year Jason  
Lancaster got run over by his own snowmobile," Mae shook her head. "Both April  
and Jen were liked, April in particular. Hometown girl, y'know. Terrible what  
happened to her family."

Mulder brought up the rear. He and Scully had developed a wonderful rhythm in  
the first few months of their partnership, one that had carried on over the  
years. They'd scope the crime scene, Mulder seeing what he could see while  
Scully quizzed the officer in charge about the crime itself and the players  
involved, if known. He'd have a think, then they'd switch, and she'd  
investigate the scene and the body if it remained in place, while he picked the  
officer's brain. It worked to their advantage more often than not. He hadn't  
ever worked with anyone else so well, regardless of gender. They reversed the  
process during formal interviews.

Mae led them into the kitchen, which was lined with battered industrial sized  
stainless steel stove, refrigerator and freezer. It was a cold room made warmer  
with the judicious use of color, apricot walls and cinnamon trim. A scarred  
wooden table big enough to seat ten people was in the middle of the room, and  
there was a cushioned seat beneath the bay window.

"Take a seat," Mae said, pulling three mugs from one of the azure cupboards.

Scully pulled one end of the bench out from the table and sat down. "You  
mentioned something about her family?"

Mulder wandered over to the window. It hadn't started snowing yet, but the  
whistle of the wind was clearly audible through the panes. As was the breeze  
coming from the sill. He moved and sat next to Scully.

"Oh yeah, happened ten years ago. If April hadn't been staying over at Nicole  
Dulac's she'd've died with her parents and little brother," The kettle shrilled  
and she moved it to another burner, turned off the stove. "I've got herbal,  
black tea, and instant decaf. I would've made a fresh pot, but I figured you'd  
be tired and want your sleep later on."

"Coffee for me, please," Mulder said. Scully seemed none too pleased, but she'd  
get over it. She always did.

"Agent Scully?"

"Herbal."

Mae filled a cobalt blue porcelain teapot with leaves from a jar, then spooned  
a heap of instant coffee into one of the mugs. She topped both teapot and  
mug with water, stirred, brought them to the table. "It was Christmastime, to  
make things even worse. They ultimately decided that it was an electrical fault  
from one of the candles in the window. They found John in the hallway with Joe,  
he must have been carrying the boy when he was overcome by the smoke. Poor  
Faith never even made it out of bed."

"Are there any other family members living in the area?" Mulder asked. He took  
a sip of coffee - it was instant all right.

"No," Mae stirred the pot again, fragrant mint-scented steam rising from the  
spout. She placed a bamboo strainer over a mug, poured one for Scully, then  
herself. "They were the last. It's a pity."

Scully added a spoonful of dark honey to her mug. "What about  
yourself, have you lived here long?" 

"Oh, I grew up in Lincoln. When I was little I thought the town was named after  
me, much to the delight of my classmates. My teacher, Mrs. Kaspar, told me the  
town originally had an indian name, but upon his death was renamed after  
President Lincoln. We were a stop on the Underground Railroad, y'know."

"Of course," Mulder said. "You're only a few miles from the border."

Mae nodded. "Which also explains the prevalence of French names."

Scully took over. "Does Lincoln get a lot of crime?"

"Not really. I mean, there's the occasional burglary, but that's almost always  
restricted to the summer homes and ski lodges. Sometimes campers  
unintentionally set forest fires, but the volunteers get those under control  
pretty quickly. A few years ago there was a spate of underwear being stolen off  
of laundry lines and from Sud's and Bud's, that's the bar-laundromat downtown.  
Actually, apart from the Mahoney's, we haven't had a serious incident in years."

"What about strangers?"

Mae squinched her face in thought. "Depends on the season. We get history buffs  
following the Railroad into Canada, tourists taking the indirect route from  
Quebec City and Montreal to Boston and New York, or vice versa. Skiers, hikers,  
cyclists. The usual assortment. It's enough to keep me in business, but not  
what I'd call tremendous. Two b and b's would be one too many."

Mulder took another sip of the awful coffee while Mae and Scully chatted. Two  
murders in a town where not much happened. A woman drowns in the frozen  
shallows of a river in the middle of December. Another woman scalped, skinned  
alive, and disemboweled in the middle of the woods, far enough away from town so  
that no one hears her screams, yet close enough to a trail to be found by a  
couple of snowmobilers. He asked, "Was April the type of person to commit  
suicide?"

"I wouldn't have thought so, but you never can tell with that sort of thing.  
She always struck me as the type of person who planned on going far in life,"  
Mae inspected her tea, picked out a long leaf and rolled it between her fingers.  
"Jenny I didn't care for. Her or that Elaine. I'm sure she was a perfectly  
nice girl, but there was something about her that didn't sit right with me," Mae  
rose to answer the phone as it rang in the hallway.

"Our very own font of information. Must be our lucky day," Scully murmured.

"Got that right, Scully."

Mae returned a moment later. "That was the Sheriff. He'd like the two of you to  
go to the office. He sounded like he was in a hurry."

Fortune bless, now he wouldn't have to finish that terrible coffee.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Down in the park  
> where the chant is  
> 'Death, death, death'  
> Until the sun cries morning  
> Down in the park  
> with friends of mine"
> 
> Gary Numan/Down in the Park/Replicas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed Gein was the man upon whom the character 'Jamie Gumb' was created for _The Silence of the Lambs_.

The walk to the Lincoln State Police office was quick. Main Street was eerily  
deserted, considering it had only just gone five. The lights were on, but was  
anybody home?

The front section of the church had been reserved for the post office and  
historical society, occupying either side of the huge foyer, while the State  
Police had the remainder in the back. Even so, it wasn't big.

Consisting of one room, the office looked like every other federal office Mulder  
had ever been in, except it didn't have a rat's maze of movable cubicles.  
WANTED and MISSING posters were tacked on the walls, along with a host of  
federal regulations and worker's comp fact sheets, plus way too many McGruff the  
Crime Dog posters. Take a Bite Out of Crime. Apart from the white walls, the  
room was all brown. Carpet, metal desks, telephones, in baskets. Mulder felt  
like he was on the reverse of a baked bean. 

One of the deputies, the ignominiously named Burt Lancaster, a short balding man  
with horn-rimmed glasses, led them to the back of the office. Mulder would not  
have believed anyone who told him about Whitlow's personal office. It had been  
constructed out of filing cabinets. Three walls of filing cabinets, the  
building forming the fourth wall. 

Whitlow didn't look up from the file he was reading as they were led in. "Take a  
seat."

Mulder assumed a sloppier pose than usual, knees wide apart, slouched down in  
the chair. Whitlow's eyes flickered ever so slightly. Point made, Mulder sat  
up and crossed his legs. "How's your son?"

"He'll be fine," Whitlow cleared his throat and closed the file. "I'd like to  
apologize for my manner earlier today -"

Mulder shook his head. "You can't help but worry about your children. There's  
nothing to apologize for," Out of the corner of his eye he saw Scully glance at  
her hands. 

"I have to say that I wasn't expecting anyone from the FBI, not anymore."

"How do you mean?" Scully asked. 

"I requested help three weeks ago when we found April. Now I'm not a medical  
examiner -"

"No, he leaves that up to me. I'm Oona MacArthur, your local coroner and medical  
examiner," A tall woman with cropped white hair, dressed in jeans and a fuzzy  
brown cowl neck sweater, smelling of smoke and rose attar, stepped around  
Mulder's chair. She stuck her hand out. "Oh, don't get up."

Mulder stood anyway, introduced himself and Scully. He was pleasantly surprised  
at being able to look her directly in the eye. Tall, indeed, and quite  
attractive. She wore tiny circled five point silver stars in her ears, and a  
silver moonstone ring.

MacArthur shook Scully's hand, then leaned against the nearest filing cabinet,  
folding her arms. "Go on, Nathaniel, don't let me stop you."

Whitlow continued on as if she hadn't interrupted. "There's something funny  
about April's death - "

"That's an understatement," MacArthur muttered.

"She was found face down in the shallows by Pond River bridge. I think she was  
supposed to look like a suicide, but if it was, well, pigs can fly."

"How so?" Mulder asked in tandem with Scully. 

"She hadn't broken through the ice," Whitlow said bluntly. "Not completely. Rob  
MacArthur found her lying face down in the fishing hole he'd cut only a couple  
of days before. It hadn't snowed that week, but it was cold enough for her to  
have frozen into it."

Scully frowned and looked at the coroner. "Did she drown?"

"She certainly did. And she did inhale Pond River water. But, I didn't find any  
of the cuts or abrasions you'd expect when someone falls down an embankment.  
She was wearing mittens, and there wasn't a mark on them. There was no evidence  
of sexual assault, either."

"I'd like to take a look at her body," Scully said.

MacArthur glanced guiltily at the Sheriff, shrugged apologetically. "She was  
cremated."

Mulder sighed. 

"You also have to understand that the bridge is only what, four or five feet  
above the river, which is also at its shallowest until the next bend," said  
Whitlow, leaning back in his chair. He shook his head. "If she didn't slip and  
fall, she would've had to have climbed over the railing or the snowbank to get  
to the ice. And to what purpose? We didn't find any fishing equipment. It  
doesn't make any damned sense."

"I couldn't rule out a suicide," MacArthur explained further. "But I sure as  
hell didn't like putting it on the death certificate."

"I'd like to take a look out there if possible," Mulder said. Another outdoor  
location. "Is the bridge close to a house?"

MacArthur pushed off the filing cabinet and stepped closer to Whitlow. She  
frowned. "Indian Farm's my brother's place. He and April didn't get along."

Why did people always point in the direction they least wanted others to look?  
Scully glanced at him - divide and conquer. "What about Jenny Dubois?"

"One thing's for sure, she didn't drown," Whitlow paused, then said, "Her  
organs...her face...do you think it's some kind of Hannibal Lector thing?"

Mulder twitched one shoulder. "I don't know. We certainly can't rule out  
cannibalism, although I would have expected the thigh, calf, or breasts to be  
taken as well. Ed Gein skinned his victims because he wanted to be a woman, and  
making a woman-suit was the next best thing. Nevertheless, he wasn't a  
cannibal. Jeffrey Dahmer ate selected parts of his victims as a way of  
possessing their essential nature. I don't get the same feeling with our  
killer. Maybe he likes the taste. Human is supposed to be quite similar to  
pork in flavor."

"Jesus," MacArthur grimaced and shuddered.

"What about their roommate," Scully asked, reading from her field notes. "Elaine  
Weschler?" 

"Elaine works at Mysterious Ways, Jonas Putnam's bookstore. She's completely  
bewildered by these events, can't understand why anyone would want to kill  
either one of them. She did call us when Jenny didn't come home last night, but  
Jenny'd never told her what trails she was going on. Elaine thinks she  
remembers seeing her head towards Meadow Road, but can't be positive."

"Y'know, South Trail's a hell of a long way from Meadow Road," MacArthur mused.  
"It's got to be, what, eighteen, twenty miles away? Depending, of course, how  
close to town she was when she started out. And she would have had to ski it  
back, assuming South Trail was her destination in the first place. Assuming she  
even started from Meadow Road. Jesus. Maybe someone gave her a ride?" 

Whitlow shook his head. "Nah, she was an excellent skier, was the alternate for  
the US cross-country team at the Junior Olympics when she was eighteen."

"So where are her skis?" Mulder asked. "Are we overlooking the obvious, here?"

Scully put her foot in. "There weren't any ski tracks around the body." 

She had a knack of making statements like that sound less like the accusations  
they were. Mulder wished she would share the secret with him.

"And don't even think my troopers would be so stupid as to mess up a crime  
scene," Whitlow growled. "We're not hicks, y'know."

"So if she didn't ski to the trail, how did she get there?" Mulder shifted in  
his seat, ignoring Whitlow's comment. "Did she ski along the road, then take the  
snowmobile trail into the forest? And if so, could not her killer have done the  
same?"

"It's possible, and as likely as any other explanation at this stage," Whitlow  
said, rubbing his face with one hand. "Chances are, we find the ski's, we find  
the killer."

Silence reigned for few moments.

MacArthur suddenly brightened. "Agent Scully, Nathaniel tells me you're a  
forensic pathologist. Would you care to assist me in the examination of the  
body?"

"I'd be happy to, Mrs MacArthur."

"Oh, please, it's just Oona. No one's called me Mrs. since I got rid of the  
ball and chain," MacArthur rolled her eyes and headed for the gap in the filing  
cabinets, Scully in tow. "It's so nice to see more women in our profession - "

"Oona's going to pluck your partner's brains dry," Whitlow grinned sourly and  
stood up. "Come on, I'll take you to the bridge."

Ten minutes out of town they turned onto Indian Farm road, the dirty snow clear  
sign of its unpaved status. Beyond the high-beams, apart from a few clumps of  
trees, fields appeared to lay on either side of the road. How had April Mahoney  
gotten out here?

"You were recommended." 

Mulder looked at the Sheriff. "Excuse me?" 

Whitlow's lips tightened. "A couple of days after we found April, I got an  
anonymous call. A man instructed me to ask specifically for you. April's death  
was so strange..." he shrugged one shoulder, shook his head. "Figured it  
couldn't hurt to have the resources of the FBI at hand."

Interesting. So far there hadn't been anything to suggest there was anything  
remotely X-ish about the case. The only other thing he could think of was that  
someone wanted them out of Washington. Still seemed like a pretty far stretch.  
Maybe there was something odd here after all?

After turning onto the left of another fork in the road, they arrived at the  
bridge, the yellow BRIDGES FREEZE BEFORE ROAD and white LEGAL LIMIT 4 TONS signs  
juddering in the gusts of wind. Whitlow didn't bother pulling the truck over to  
the side of the road. There wasn't much point, for with the snowbanks as high  
as they were another car couldn't pass anyway. Whitlow grabbed two heavy-duty  
flashlights out of the trunk and pointed Mulder to the right hand side of the  
bridge. "We found her on this side, about two yards over."

Mulder wished to God he'd followed Scully's example and worn mukluks or Sorels  
instead of steel toed work boots. '"Your feet are going to freeze in those  
shitkickers"' she'd said. And she was right, along with the rest of him they  
were freezing. The faster he did this the sooner he could get back in the truck. 

The plows had pushed the snow over the bank and into the river, an ultimately  
useless attempt to avoid mud season and potholes. He hesitantly stepped on the  
flattened top of the snowbank, waited to see if the crust was solid enough to  
support his weight. It was, so he went forward with more confidence, playing  
the flashlight over the eroded concrete foundations and bastions of the bridge.  
The ice covered river wasn't far down and looked very shallow, unless the rocks  
poking up here and there were far larger underneath the water than they looked.  
Downstream, the river narrowed and bent sharply to the left before being cut out  
of sight by the bank.

She stood at the edge - here. And if the snow had been soft enough - ? The  
edge crumbling away beneath her feet? No trees or tall weeds, nothing to grab  
onto. It had been icy, she'd slipped, maybe hit her head? But she'd be on her  
back, no? On the ice, the river having frozen over? So how did she end up face  
down in a fishing hole? How had her face broken the thin skin of ice covering  
the water? MacArthur had said Mahoney hadn't had any of the expected cuts and  
scrapes...why not? Because the ice had already been broken. Because she was  
meeting someone who was fishing, or who had already decided to kill her? Or she  
had done it herself? Laying down and deliberately inhaling water so cold it  
would have made her choke and cough and sputter, her skin burning from the  
frigid liquid?

"You almost done, Agent Mulder?" 

Why had she been here? Who would she have met? Why here? He turned off the  
flashlight, let his eyes adjust as much as possible. Ah. Off in the distance,  
the porch light of a house. Yeah, he was done. 

"...ing my goddamned balls off..." 

Whitlow muttered under breath as Mulder climbed back into the truck. "Is that  
MacArthur's house?"

"Ayuh. Indian Farm," he glared at Mulder. "I s'pose you want to go over and  
talk to John right now, hunh?"

Mulder shook his head, said, mildly, "It can wait until tomorrow."

The ride back was very quiet, Whitlow radiating anxiety-tinged anger. Mulder  
didn't mind.

Whitlow pulled up in front of three storey white house with a wrap around porch.  
A posted and lit wooden sign staked in the front yard read The Deacon Proctor  
Funeral Home. It waved in the constant breeze. Whitlow nodded. "Just press the  
bell. Oona's got it rigged so it rings in the basement, too."

At Mulder's inquisitive look, he added, "We're just a small town, Agent Mulder.  
We don't have a hospital, we don't have a high school, hell, we don't even have  
911\. We make do with what we've got."

Suitably told off, Mulder got out of the truck, watched it pull away. Whitlow  
was a good man, if moody and a little defensive. Anyway, it was too chilly out  
to stand here and ponder what it was like to live in a small town in a small  
state. Besides, he already knew, he'd grown up in a tiny town on a tiny island.

A light flicked on in the hallway as soon as he rang the doorbell, Oona  
MacArthur appearing a few moments later.

"Agent Mulder, come in, come in. Dana said you'd show up sooner rather than  
later."

He followed her to the back and down the stairs, wondered what on earth  
possessed people to provide such a service. Oh, it was necessary, he well knew.  
Human beings needed their rituals, created them wherever they went, from Fiji to  
the Arctic circle. Half the time he didn't know how Scully was able to do what  
she did, what had drawn her to forensics in the first place. He'd have to ask  
her someday.

The basement was plain, with a sloping concrete floor which had a drain in the  
middle. Lining the walls were a sink, two autopsy tables, a cabinet of  
instruments, a large refrigerator and six body bays. Mulder had to admit he was  
impressed. Lincoln may not have had 911, but it certainly knew how to treat a  
dead body.

Scully looked up from Dubois' body. "Mulder, there's nothing here to indicate  
that she died in any other manner than what we saw at the crime scene."

Mulder didn't really want to get any closer. Just because he'd seen plenty of  
bodies didn't mean he had gotten used to it. The odor of formaldehyde,  
disinfectant, and the underlying sickly sweet smell of decay was overpowering.  
Thank god it was winter, he hated having to deal with dripping, gassy corpses.  
No matter what Scully said, Vicks Vap-O-Rub under the nose simply didn't cut the  
mustard. And god forbid you should inhale through your mouth, that was even  
worse.

"Mulder, are you listening to me?"

"Horrific, Scully, that's what you said."

"Actually, that was me," Oona said. She shook her head, staring at Dubois. "I  
can't believe someone did this to her. And Elaine, do you think she's in any  
danger?"

It was a good question, but one he had already dismissed. "No. Both Jenny and  
April were out on their own, in or around wooded or relatively unpopulated areas  
where no one could hear them scream."

Oona's expression changed to one of extreme distaste. "That's quite enough,  
Agent Mulder. I don't really want to hear any more of your theories. It's bad  
enough seeing what that monster did to her. Dana, if you're done, I'll go ahead  
and put her away."

Scully nodded and started stripping off her gloves. "I'm all finished."

Mulder headed towards the sink and Scully. He moved as close as possible,  
lowered his head and spoke quietly. "You didn't find anything at all out of the  
ordinary?"

She glanced over her shoulder at Oona, spoke in the same soft tone. "Nothing.  
You wanted a plain and simple murder, well, you've certainly found one. She was  
tied up, but not unconscious, not for a long time. Tortured and mutilated," She  
shook her head, gazed earnestly into his eyes. "Mulder, whoever did this enjoys  
watching people suffer to a degree that I haven't encountered before, and with  
this level of degradation..."

"I know," he said, nodding. "There's no way this man hasn't killed before, and  
every reason to believe he'll do it again. He's gone so far this time, I hate  
to imagine what he'll do next."

"But you will."

Her trust in his willingness to almost become a killer was touching. Her faith  
that he would return from that desolate place marvelous. He felt touched by the  
hand of God whenever she said such things. "I will."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Certain things - I love  
> spend my time  
> I guess I'll have to unhook those thoughts"
> 
> Throwing Muses/Hook in Her Head/The Real Ramona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, for some reason AO3 keeps stripping out the html end tags.

On Oona's advice, Mulder and Scully left her to do the cleanup while they caught  
a bite to eat at the cafe. 

'"It's not gourmet, just plain food for plain people,"' she'd said, turning on  
the hose to wash down the table.

The Chat 'N' Chew was the kind of place where everyone would have turned and  
stared had it been busy. As it was, there was only one other diner, an older  
man sitting at the counter. Wood was the predominant theme: creaky uneven wood  
floor, wooden tables of varying sizes, wooden chairs which didn't match, rough  
wooden frames for the black and white photographs of Ella and Duke and the Count  
on the walls. Billie Holiday wailed away from hidden speakers.

"Have a seat wherever you like," the waitress said, pinning up a neon pink sign  
on the cork notice board.

Mulder stopped. "Mephiskapheles?"

She grinned. "Great name, eh? They're headlining with The Skatellites at the  
Burlington Ska Festival on New Year's. Gonna be a great show."

Ah, youth. At least he knew what the hell ska was. Mulder chose a two seater  
table near one of the two windows. 

"I think I'd kill for a bowl of chicken noodle soup," Scully said, hanging her  
coat over the back of her chair. She rubbed her arms, shivering.

"We've got Shaker Turkey Noodle," the waitress said brightly. She put menus  
before them, filled their glasses with water.

Scully nodded. "I'll take a bowl of that, please."

Mulder quickly perused the menu. "Nothing for me, thank you."

"Would you like coffee or tea?"

"Do you have any hot chocolate?" Mulder asked, ignoring Scully's raised brows.  
"And tea for her."

"Sure. Be back in a jiffy."

He studiously looked anywhere but his partner's face. Thankfully, she didn't  
take the opportunity to make a smart remark. There was nothing wrong with a  
grown man wanting a little comfort food. 

"So, hot chocolate?" she asked, idly playing with a packet of sugar.

"Yup," he said.

The waitress returned with their drinks. Mulder eyed his cup, then looked up at  
the waitress, who was sharing a moment of feminine conspiracy with Scully.  
Always made him nervous when women did that. 

The waitress glanced at him and said, "You looked like a man in need of mini-  
marshmallows."

He watched her walk away, and when he looked back at Scully, her face was tight  
with suppressed mirth. "I'm glad you're amused."

She stopped, then, regarded him with eyes of infinitely gentle wisdom. "Oh,  
Mulder."

He wished he could figure out what he did to make her look at him like that. He  
didn't see it all that often, and he liked the way it changed her bearing.  
Which always brought him back to wondering how far would she have gone, had she  
not been attached to him, to the X-Files. Married, no doubt, with living  
children. No scars, mental or physical. Her sister would still be breathing.  
Of course he'd probably be dead by now, but that wasn't necessarily a drawback. 

Right. 

He said, "Did I ever tell you the chicken story?"

She looked doubtful. "Is this something I want to hear while I'm eating?"

Mulder blinked. This from the woman who got meal ideas from cadavers? "Sure you  
do. Check this out - "

With opportune timing, her soup arrived, along with copious bags of oyster  
crackers, bread and butter. Scully eyed him, pushed the basket of rolls his  
way. He dutifully picked at one. Why they bothered with this sham was beyond  
him. He'd pretend to eat on the first day, she'd pretend to assume he was  
eating on the days thereafter, for as long as the case took to solve. Once the  
case was over he chowed down like the starved man that he was, and she didn't  
comment on it. She never failed him in their little on-the-road rituals. 

"So these cops are patrolling a well-known lover's lane, playing _catch-me-if-_  
you-can with the local teens, when they interrupt a couple parked in the yellow  
zone. They give the couple the low-down, but the guy tells them to check out  
the car down the road. He says they were going to park there - "

"Safety in numbers," Scully mumbled, crumbling another bag of crackers over her  
bowl. 

Mulder nodded. "Yeah, really. Anyway, the guy says he was going to park with  
the other car, but when they peered in, the other guy was in the backseat  
screwing a chicken."

Scully gawped, spoon halfway to her mouth. "He was what?"

"So the cops go check it out, and sure enough, he's doing the horizontal mambo  
with a feathered friend. What's more, he's videotaping the whole thing."

"Oh - my - god."

Mulder nodded again gleefully. "I know, can you believe it?"

"But, Mulder - how - _why?_ " 

"I've seen the tape, Scully, and all I can say is that there are some things Man  
Was Not Meant To Know. And yes," he added, because everyone wanted information  
on one particular point. "He was a fully formed and functional adult male in  
that regard."

She looked down at her half-empty bowl with an expression of amused disgust.  
"I'm never going to eat chicken again."

"Then my work here is done," he solemnly intoned.

Scully snorted and finished her soup, ordered hot Indian Pudding for dessert,  
from which Mulder snuck a couple of spoonfuls. 

They returned to the Lincoln Inn and turned in for the night, each going to  
their separate rooms to start their field reports. Mulder turned the tv on, let  
it drone away quietly in the background while he fluffed the pillows and put  
them against the headboard of his bed. He undressed, slipped into sweats.  
Thank god he'd thought of bringing them along, it was too chilly to sleep only  
in boxers even though the radiator was hot to the touch. After flipping  
channels for awhile, he decided that YO!MTV RAPS was perhaps the lesser of  
evils. But not by much. He fondly remembered the days when rapping was  
something you did with your knuckles against a door. When he was all settled  
and comfy, he uncapped his pen, opened his field journal and began to write:

 

_"Good fences make good neighbors"_  
That's how Robert Frost's Mending Wall ends.  
It begins: "Something there is that does not  
love a wall" 

_Fences and boundaries, whether mental or_  
physical, are of no importance to the killer.  
He feels no constraints. He is not sloppy,  
nor does he care if his victims are discovered.  
Location is unimportant? Confident in his  
skills as a predator. An older man, not  
comfortable with his place in the world. Or  
rather, he is comfortable, but wants recognition  
of...something. A bright man, yet a failure  
in life. Low education. Envious. Enraged.  
Self-important. Victims of little consideration.  
A loner. No relationships. Parents deceased?  
Organs as trophies? Cannibal? 

 

Mulder chewed on the end of the pen for a moment, watched a scantily clad woman  
gyrate against a gold-toothed rapper, eyes heavy with fake lust.

 

_Hates women. Sexual organs untouched. Hates_  
men too? No mutilation beyond removal  
of the face and scalp. The human body as  
trash. Freedom in the woods. Local, knows  
the trails. Survivalist? How does he find his  
victims? Who does he think he is? 

_What's the trigger?_  
What's the payoff?  
Why now?  
Why? 

 

There was a knock at the door. He checked his watch - eleven-thirty.

"Come in," he called. As expected, Scully entered his room. She too was  
dressed in sweats.

"Couldn't sleep," she said, sliding next to him, but under the covers. "I  
figured you'd still be up."

"Mm. Want the remote?"

"God, yes. Can't stand this crap."

Mulder reread what he had written, closed the notebook and put it on the  
sidetable. He had the basics of the killer down, but was missing some of the  
fundamentals. People who could do such things...and why were there so many of  
them, why now? A person who could do this didn't arrive fully formed overnight,  
no, it took years of development. "Let's get a list of all missing persons for  
the last ten years in the morning."

Scully glanced at him. "You think he's been practicing?"

He smiled grimly. "You're getting better at profiling with each and every case,  
Scully. VCS and the ISU won't need me at all."

"Yeah, right," she smirked and shook her head, frowned as she flipped through  
the same channels he had. "Why's everything in french?"

"Canadian cable. Hey, hockey!"

"Isn't there anything better on?" she asked with the tone of the long-suffering. 

"Speaking personally, as an American and a sports fan, that's heresy, Scully."

"Mm."

"There are various made-for-tv movies, Jerry Springer, cartoons, and CBC news.  
And it's all in French."

Scully sighed. "Hockey it is."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is in the heart itself  
> lies live, and deceit  
> How can I speak thereof  
> wisely, with gentleness?" 
> 
> Hedningarna/Vargtimmen/Tra  
> (trans.)

Mulder awoke to the smell of bacon. Rubbing sticky eyes, he sat up, checking to  
see if Scully had spent the night. Of course she hadn't. But she'd tucked him  
under the covers and turned off the lights. 

Fifteen minutes later he was downstairs, nibbling on a piece of bacon and  
gulping down hot black coffee while Scully put her coat and gloves on. Mae  
seemed put out that he didn't want a bigger breakfast. 

The roads were slick from freezing rain, and Mulder drove slowly and carefully  
to Indian Farm. It wasn't a big place, consisting of a two storey white house,  
decrepit red barn, two silos leaning against one another at crazy angles. A  
few Holsteins wandered in a paddock. Shaggy cattle of a kind Mulder had never  
seen before stood in the field across from the house, chewing hay and looking  
mournful. 

The front door opened as they got out of the car, and a dark haired man around  
thirty years old called, "You the FBI?"

Mulder flashed his creds. "I'm Special Agent Mulder, this is Special Agent  
Scully. May we come in?"

"My father's out in the north field, got a fence to fix."

Scully said, "And you are..."

"Rob MacArthur." 

Once inside the house, four huge dogs milled around their legs, tails wagging,  
barking happily and looking for pats.

"Luna, Cosmo, get down!" MacArthur shouted, hauling an English setter and a  
golden Lab off of Mulder. "Sorry 'bout that. Babur! Damnit, Molly, go lie  
down!"

He led the two of them into the living room, which was crammed with furniture,  
one couch of which the dogs apparently claimed as their own, judging by the  
amount of hair on the blankets. Everything from tv to books to half-completed  
jigsaw puzzle, looked well used. Not poor, necessarily, so much as evidence of  
that infamous Yankee thriftiness. The room smelled of dog and pipe tobacco and  
woodsmoke.

In the far corner a woman dressed in black sat at a round table playing  
Solitaire. She didn't look up as they entered. "Hey Rob, maybe we should call  
the police? He's been gone since last night, and he always calls if he's going  
to be kept up..."

MacArthur motioned towards her. "This my wife, Perouze. Agent Scully, Agent  
Mulder. FBI."

Like Scully, Mrs. MacArthur was a truly beautiful woman, the kind of beauty that  
only made itself known to the person who could see beyond the mundane. Her  
features were classically Caucasoid, with startling sea-green eyes, wavy hair  
the color of molasses, honeyed skin, hooked nose. Her accent placed her  
somewhere around the Mid-East. Enough of the niceties, however. Mulder said,  
"We'd like to talk to you about April Mahoney."

MacArthur shot his wife a hard look. "What about her - she's dead."

Mrs. MacArthur pursed her shapely lips. She stood. "Agent Scully, you look  
cold. I'll make you some tea."

Scully glanced at Mulder as she followed the other woman out of the room.  
"'Perouze', that's a pretty name - "

MacArthur scowled and threw himself onto a pea green armchair. He gazed out the  
window, chewing on a dirt-ingrained fingernail. "She was just a local. Knew her  
all my life. Finding her like that..." He turned towards Mulder. "Her hair was  
picked up by the wind, looked like it was alive. She weren't, though. Never  
seen a dead person before." 

"Why was she out there?"

He removed his finger long enough to lick his lips. "Dunno."

Mulder didn't say the obvious. No woman in their right mind, without a car,  
would hike six miles to the middle of nowhere just to drown herself. At night.  
Especially when there were much more convenient methods right at home. "How did  
you meet your wife?"

MacArthur startled at the non sequitur. "Perouze? I was stationed in the Med,  
met her on leave in Istanbul. She's Armenian. Couple of years later we met  
again at UVM, hooked up, got married."

"Children?" 

"Nope."

Mulder just looked at the man. Dressed in a grubby white turtleneck with a red  
flannel overshirt, olive corduroys, and thick wool socks, he was the epitome of  
the small time working farmer. Unhappiness came off of him in waves. "What do  
you think happened to her?"

"Dunno." 

One of the dogs, the giant German Shepherd, wandered over and sat down, looked  
at Mulder with big _'I'll be your bestest friend forever and ever if you just pet_  
me' brown eyes. Defeated, he scratched the dog behind the ears. "What kind of  
cattle are those in the field in front?"

A frown, then. "Highland. Used to be strictly dairy, but the price of milk  
dropped too much. We switched a few years ago. Good market for organic beef  
these days."

Thankfully Scully chose to reappear, Mrs. MacArthur one step behind, saving him  
from having to learn more about modern farming techniques. She'd probably found  
out more information than he had, anyway. 

"Rob, when's Steve going to be back?" Mrs. MacArthur asked, hands on hips.

"Hell if I know," MacArthur shot out of the chair, face set. He gestured  
angrily at Mulder. "If you're done, I got work to do."

Once outside, making their way slowly to the car, Mulder asked, "So, what did  
she have to say?"

"She knows, Mulder.

"That he was having an affair?"

Scully cast him a sidelong smile. "You're getting better with each and every  
case. Pretty soon you won't need me at all.

He threw his head back and faked silent laughter. 

"Apparently he swore he broke it off with April months ago, but his wife remains  
doubtful."

Mulder took the keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door. "Maybe he did - "

" - and of course it's an extremely unfortunate occurrence that she died only a  
mile and a half from his front door."

"It is plausible, Scully." 

She put her seat belt on, pausing long enough to glare at him. "Don't give me  
any of that 'plausible' crap, Mulder."

He grinned. It really was an overused word. Despite attempts to ban it from  
their collective vocabulary, and unlike April Mahoney, it kept resurrecting  
itself. "He's not our killer, Scully. The only thing Rob MacArther's guilty of  
is poor judgement."

Scully nodded. "She is beautiful, isn't she."

Trust Scully to notice. It was at times like these that he was grateful he had  
a female partner. A male agent would probably have commented on her bed warming  
ability, rather than the stupidity of her husband. He liked sex just as much as  
the next man, but he didn't see the world through hormone glazed eyes. Well,  
not usually, anyway. 

The car slid a little at the bottom of the driveway. He slipped into four-wheel  
drive, made a mental note to thank Avis for providing a Subaru when they  
returned to Burlington. Miserable weather to be driving around in. Maybe he'd  
take a long hot bath later on, if there was time.

"Mulder?"

Blue lights flashed ahead. Mulder stopped, rolled down the window. The wind  
may not have been blowing, but the rain and damp sent the chill straight to his  
bones.

Deputy Lancaster walked up, water dripping off the brim of his hat. "We've got  
another one over by the pond. Follow me."

It was too damn soon. Mulder revised his timetable. Mahoney, drowned. Dubois,  
disemboweled. There had to be others, maybe in the next county? No.

Although Lancaster had chains on his tires, he drove slowly enough for Mulder to  
follow without fear of going off the road. They turned onto Pond River Road  
soon after crossing the bridge. Odd, he didn't recall seeing a road when out  
here with Whitlow. Hmm, he'd probably been distracted. Or maybe it was  
deliberate on Whitlow's part? Nah, that was being too paranoid, even for him. 

They arrived at the scene forty-five minutes later. The victim's car, a tan  
Subaru hatchback spotted with rust, was parked by a large and curiously flat  
field, which must have been said Pond the river and road were named after. A  
copse of paper birches lined the pond on the far side. A lime green piece of  
plastic sat on the hood of the car. The snow was getting increasingly sticky  
underfoot, for which Mulder was grateful. Whitlow and some troopers were  
huddled around something on the ground behind the Subaru.

Whitlow glanced over his shoulder as Mulder and Scully approached. "It's a bad  
one, another local, Sarah Chapman. Second grade teacher at the school. Looks like she  
pulled over to clear the ice off her windshield when she was attacked. Deputy  
Goddard found her on routine patrol."

Like Jenny Dubois, she was lying on her back, staring up at the sky, head  
nothing but white bone and tiny strips of red meat covered with a glistening  
layer of ice. She wore jeans and a navy jacket patched on the shoulder with  
silver duct tape, the roll of a thick black sweater visible above the jacket's  
collar. Her clothes were frosted with ice and blood. A cherry stain surrounded  
her, draining towards the pond. Mulder tilted his head to one side - there was  
\- she didn't look right. "Scully?"

She had crouched down and was looking at the body intently. "All of the long  
bones in her legs are broken - femurs, tibiae, fibulae - I'm guessing both  
humeri and ulnae - her arms - are, too. That requires a tremendous amount of  
force, Mulder."

One of the troopers stumbled away and dry heaved into the snow.

"So she was run over?" another one, a blonde woman, said.

Scully regarded the woman steadily. "No."

"Sweet Jesus," Whitlow muttered. He rubbed his mouth as if he tasted something  
bitter.

Scully stood up. "Were there any tracks?" 

"Not that we can tell," said the blonde, motioning towards the pond.  
"Unfortunately the overnight rain's obliterated just about all the evidence  
besides the body."

"Sheriff Whitlow," Mulder said. "I'd like a list of all missing persons in the  
area."

"And I'd like to assist in the autopsy," Scully chimed in.

Whitlow nodded. "Oona's on her way. Unfortunately I can't accommodate you,  
Agent Mulder."

"Excuse me?"

"We don't have any missing persons, haven't had any since we found Jenny."

"What about MacArthur?" Mulder asked, wishing he'd asked back at Indian farm.

Whitlow looked at him blankly. "Which one?"

"Stephen," Scully said. "Mrs. MacArthur says he never returned last night from  
his concert in Waterloo."

"Aw hell," Whitlow said, stepping towards his truck. "I'd better go over there  
and talk to them."

"Scully, I'm going to head back to the office, talk to Elaine Weschler. Do you  
want the car?"

She shook her head. "I'll catch a ride."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Once I lived on lakes,  
> once I looked beautiful  
> when I was a swan"
> 
> Carl Orff/Olim Lacus Colueram/Carmina Burana  
> (trans.)

Mulder cleared the desk Whitlow had temporarily given him, put all the papers on   
the desk opposite. Some bright spark had gotten copies of the women's drivers   
licenses and blown up the pictures. He was struck by the similarities between   
the three, and wondered how none of the deputies had picked up on it before. To   
put it more plainly, they were ugly. Oh, not in a 'needs plastic surgery right   
away' sense, just extraordinarily plain, and not in a good way, either. Eyes   
were set too narrow, noses too sharp, teeth too small or too horsey, stained and   
crooked, hair limp and straggled. From there they were completely different.   
Dubois was forty pounds overweight, Chapman positively anorexic, while Mahoney   
rolled in at precisely the insurance table level for her age. Their ages spanned   
across twelve years. None were married or in a relationship as far as Whitlow   
knew. Mahoney was local, Dubois and Chapman both out-of-staters. No children,   
no pets. All had lived in Lincoln for at least five years.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the pictures he'd taped to the wall.   
They had known their killer, he'd put money on it. Oona hadn't found any   
evidence that Mahoney had struggled against her killer, not that they would ever   
know now that she was nothing but grit and ash. Dubois hadn't put up a   
struggle, and he'd bet Chapman had been surprised. She probably hadn't even   
known what hit her.

So what did their killer see in them? Or had it merely been opportunity? How   
did he know them? By sight? Did he work in the area, doing something...mail   
delivery? Garbage pickup? No, both of those would be too close to real jobs,   
requiring self-motivation and discipline, the subjection of the self to outside   
authority.

"Agent Mulder?" The dispatcher peered at him from the front desk. "Agent   
Scully's on line four."

Mulder picked up the phone, pressed the requisite button. "What've you got?"

"She was beaten almost to death, Mulder, but was ultimately strangled. She has   
bruises on her throat, but the roll of the sweater's preventing us from getting   
any indication of what was used, although we're sure it wasn't a ligature.   
Besides her hyoid bone, there are three fractures in the skull, multiple   
fractures in the arms and legs, and get this, five of her vertebrae were   
shattered. Even her pelvic girdle has cracks in it. We've found boot marks on   
her stomach, but I don't think we can get a clean print from her, there's too   
much damage. He must have jumped up and down on her. No organs were removed,   
probably because they'd already burst. Rather than her face and scalp being   
cleanly cut off as they were with Jenny Dubois, here the edges are ragged, as if   
he were in a great hurry."

"Or enraged," Mulder added. God, this was all going to hell in a handbasket far   
more quickly than he had anticipated. "Time of death?"

"Hard to tell with this weather, but I think last night sometime. What do you   
think he's going to do next?"

Mulder shook his head in frustration. "Kill again. I think he's moved into the   
spree stage, Scully. We've got to find Stephen MacArthur as soon as possible.   
I'm going to talk to Elaine Weschler. Were can I find you?"

"I'll be here. We've got a little more work to do."

 

Mysterious Ways focussed on the metaphysical, slanted heavily towards Christian   
mysticism and thought, although both Marianne Williamson and Deepak Chopra had a   
lot of face-outs on the shelves. One entire stack was dedicated to A Course In   
Miracles. He approached the brunette unboxing books by the register. "Excuse   
me, I'm looking for Elaine Weschler?"

"That would be me," she said, pale blue eyes nearly colorless against the dark   
circles underneath her lower lids. Grief had etched heavy lines across her   
face. "You the FBI?"

News did travel fast in small towns. "Special Agent Fox Mulder. I'd like to   
ask you a few questions."

She shrugged, pulled out a couple of books out of the box, turning them his way,   
no doubt trying to make a sale while they spoke. H.R.F. Keating - Bad   
Detective and Inspector Ghote Trusts The Heart. 

"I told the police everything I know."

"Were either Jenny or April dating anyone?"

"No. No way, I would've known about it."

"Why do you think April went to Indian Farm?"

Weschler broke down the box and put it behind the counter before answering.   
"Maybe she went for a walk, I don't know."

"Was she a nice person?" 

"She was beautiful," Weschler murmured, gazing at the counter with a hint of a   
smile before looking up at him with narrowed eyes and tight lips. "We weren't   
lovers y'know, just friends. Just friends."

Another instance of people waving a red flag where they didn't want everyone to   
look.

"Elaine, I don't pay you to stand there and gossip!"

"He's from the FBI, Onatah," Weschler explained.

The tiny Native American woman raked Mulder up and down with furious eyes. "I   
don't care if he's from Vatican City, you can talk to him on your own time."

Mulder figured he wasn't going to get anything out of Weschler that he didn't   
already know, so he headed towards the Deacon Proctor.

He made good time to the funeral home, due to the sidewalks having been sanded.   
The freezing rain had stopped, and the sun was making an appearance, a brief one   
by the looks of the clouds coming in from the northwest. Given good lighting,   
Lincoln was quite pretty. Apart from the spree killer in its midst, of course.

Oona was having a smoke on the porch, dressed in scrubs and a white wool   
cardigan, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She gave him a funny look as he   
came up the steps. "I don't know how you do it."

"Hunt killers?"

She nodded, exhaled, stared out over the snow-covered lawn. "Dana tells me you   
were brilliant when you were in the ISU. I imagine such work takes its toll."

He twitched one shoulder, watched her blow smoke rings. 

"I couldn't handle living people. Tried to become a medical doctor, but   
couldn't take the pain in their eyes. You only see the aftermath of violence   
when you work with the dead, not its presence," she paused, took another puff of   
her cigarette. "Y'know, I pray for them. I pray for their families to   
understand that their loved ones are no longer in pain, that they're in the   
comforting embrace of the universe, that they've moved on to another plane of   
existence," she cocked her head to one side, eyed him sidelong. "I'm not a   
Christian."

"I know," he said with a nod. "The pentagram earrings gave it away."

She reached up and touched one of the studs in her ear. "Not many people   
notice."

They watched in relaxed silence as the sunlight began to disappear, the clouds   
rolling in and turning the day darkly bright. A red Toyota drove by, crows   
cawed, a gray squirrel scampered along the driveway, stopping briefly to stare   
at them before moving on. 

He said, softly, "I feel...as if...part of my soul has been stained by what I   
do."

She answered just as quietly. "In order to hunt evil, you have to understand it,   
acknowledge its existence within yourself."

Mulder let her words roll through him like a balm. It didn't feel odd to have   
this conversation with a stranger rather than Scully. Evil was something they   
rarely discussed, mostly because he felt uncomfortable with the answers her   
faith provided, although he knew she questioned those answers from time to time.

"You won't be seduced by the dark side, Agent Mulder," Oona said with a quiet   
smile, brown eyes twinkling. "You know it too well to be fooled by it."

Scully opened the front door before he had a chance to answer. 

"I was wondering where you'd gotten to. Oona, I finished everything up   
downstairs," she folded her arms and shivered. "How long have you two been out   
here, it's freezing!"

In all honesty Mulder hadn't even noticed. "I spoke to Elaine Weschler. She   
didn't have much to say, but I got the distinct impression that she and Jenny   
Dubois were more than good friends."

"Really?" Oona stubbed out her cigarette in the sand filled coffee can duly   
provided for the purpose. "Certainly does explain a lot. Oh, I think I hear the   
phone. 'Scuse me - "

"And she knew about April Mahoney and Rob MacArthur."

"So now what?"

"See what Whitlow's come up with about Stephen MacArthur," Mulder let out a long   
breath. "He's here, Scully, right under our noses, and I can't see the forest   
for the trees."

She said nothing, but gently touched his arm, the merest pressure of her   
fingertips through coat, pullover, Henley, and tee enough to ground his fear and   
frustration. Until she had come into his life, he hadn't realized that he had   
needed a lightning rod all along. Brilliance didn't count for much if you   
weren't sane enough to do something with it.

Oona returned, closing and locking the front door. Her face was filled with   
relief when she turned around. "They've got Stephen. He's at Nathaniel's   
office. I'll drive."

Minutes later Oona threw her arms around a thin and bedraggled man in his late   
twenties who was sitting in a chair, wrapped in a silver space blanket. He was   
pale skinned and dark haired, with white blotches of frostnip on his nose and   
fingers. "Nana, I'm all right. Just need some food, something hot to drink."

Mulder contemplated the man while Scully took over from the deputy examining   
MacArthur. He wasn't ugly. "What happened?"

MacArthur shivered, lost in memory. "I was on my way back from Waterloo - I'd   
gone to see Excelerated Decrepitude at The Nightingale - when it started   
sleeting. I've only got all-season radials on the car, so I stopped to put the   
chains on. The next thing I know, I'm being dragged through the woods," he   
stopped, took a swig of tea from the mug he was handed.

"Did you see his face?" Whitlow demanded.

"Where'd you pull over?" Mulder asked at the same time.

"No. It was too dark to see his face. I don't know where the hell I parked,"   
MacArthur swallowed, shook his head. "Christ, I didn't leave Waterloo until   
what, one or two in the morning? I could barely see the road, never mind which   
stretch of it I parked on." 

He took another sip of tea, frowned. "Anyway, my hands weren't tied, so I tried   
to reach out and grab something to hit him with. That's when I realized that we   
were in the woods - my hands kept hitting tree trunks. We must have been on a   
ski trail. He had to have been on ski's, cause we were going too slow for   
snowmobiles. The trail was too narrow. And it was real quiet."

Come on, man. Mulder felt impatience creep up to soaring levels. He tried not   
to fidget.

"I finally got hold of a loose branch, hit him across the legs," MacArthur's   
voice cracked. He sniffled, took a deep breath and continued. "He fell and I   
hit him across the head a couple of times, then jumped into the woods. I ran.   
I didn't know where the hell I was going. I just ran."

"How did you find your way to the road?" asked Oona.

"Luck, nana. I spent most of the night trying to get to a high spot, so I could   
look for lights."

"Oh, Stevie," She slipped one arm around his shoulders and held him tight.

"I saw lights flashing off a couple of trees and ran that way.   
Ran, huh, stumbled, more like. Finally found the road, picked a   
direction and started walking until Suzie Dulac picked me up on her   
mail run," his voice broke as he buried his head in his hands. 

"He needs to go to a hospital as soon as possible," Scully said   
to the nearest deputy. 

Mulder stepped away from Oona and her weeping nephew, motioned Scully and   
Whitlow over. "He's a lucky man."

"He has a remarkable memory," Scully said to Whitlow. 

"Steve's a lawyer, just passed the Vermont Bar after working in Boston for a few   
years," Whitlow replied, looking back at MacArthur. 

"Who knows the forest well enough to drag somebody away without fear of   
discovery?" Mulder asked, listening intently to what Whitlow as well as his   
backbrain were telling him.

Whitlow shrugged. "Depends on what you mean by 'well enough'. We're country   
folk, we're all familiar with the local trails winter and summer."

"All right," Mulder closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Here's   
who we're looking for: a white male, aged forty to fifty-five. A loner, dull   
and unfashionable in appearance. He's had jobs of little value all his life,   
and may go through long periods of unemployment. He's smart, but it's more a   
matter of animal cunning than superb intelligence. He has little or no family   
and lives by himself. He may or may not have a vehicle, but if he does it'll be   
an older model. He's very familiar with the area, most likely grew up here, and   
knew the victims well enough to approach them without them being nervous. He   
won't have a firearm, but consider him extremely dangerous. And he'll have a   
large build, muscular without being fat."

"What about Jocelyn?" The dispatcher called. She waited for Oona and Stephen to   
pass her before approaching Mulder. "He lives out by South Trail."

"Come on Peggy, he wouldn't hurt a fly," Whitlow dismissed the idea with a wave   
of his hand, then turned to Mulder with an air of apology. "Jocelyn Kaspar's one   
of the local's. He does odd jobs here and there, keeps to himself, mostly."

Peggy shook her head in disagreement, unnaturally black hair brushing her   
shoulders. "I've never liked him. He's creepy. And he smells funny."

Mulder nodded to himself. "Troublemaker?"

"Not lately."

"How soon can we talk to him?"

Whitlow said, "It'll have to be tomorrow morning. The snowmobiles are still   
being serviced."

"I want to leave as early as possible." 

"Alright, we'll meet here at four in the a-m. But Agent Mulder, I don't see how   
Jocelyn's got anything to do with this."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I should not sing at all,   
> feeling so low with thoughts so bleak.  
> Mournful of heart is this bird, and   
> barren its tongue.
> 
> The frozen marsh will thaw in time,   
> the frosty ground will melt and swell,   
> the very seashore may crumble   
> but this sorrow will not go away -  
> here the chill yet lingers"
> 
> Varttina/Mieleni Alenevi/Vihma   
> (trans.)

Scully was hungry, so Mulder accompanied her to the Chat 'N' Chew, drank coffee   
and stole fries from her plate, hoping all the while that their killer didn't   
already have his next victim. What the hell were they going to do until the   
morning?

"Mulder, what the hell are we going to do until tomorrow morning?" 

"You just read my mind."

She sighed, pushed her plate over so he could eat the remaining fries. "Do you   
think it's Kaspar?"

Nodding, he licked salt from his fingertips. "Positive. Did you see the look on   
Peggy's face when she was talking about him?"

"Yeah. I wonder why Whitlow doesn't think of him as a suspect?"

"It's a funny thing, Scully, how many distrust their own gut instincts when it   
comes to other people. The mask of civilized behavior takes control, and we   
choose to stand when we should be running, saying yes when we should be saying   
no, staying on the sidewalk when we should be crossing the street. Can you   
imagine what would happen if we all behaved on intuition?"

"The end of the world as we know it? That 'mask of behavior', as you call it,   
is necessary if we're going to continue on as a species."

"Is it?" Mulder took a sip of blessedly fresh coffee. "Says who?"

"Says me," she replied. "There would be no one to catch these people if it   
weren't for civilized behavior. No one would care save for the families that   
were impacted. I'm sorry, Mulder, but on this you're wrong."

"I don't think so. How many times have living victims told us that they knew   
better, that there was something strange about their polite neighbor or that   
real quiet kid down the street, the one who seemed to lose an awful lot of   
pets?," He raised a hand as the waiter walked by. "Check, please."

Scully shook her head. "But instinct, intuition, neither are infallible. And   
what about people with severe psychoses? Would you expect them to be able to   
judge others accordingly? How could they use their intuition when their brains   
are telling them something completely different?"

"Didn't I just say that?"

"No, you were talking about the average person. You have to recognize that   
someone who might be hearing voices in their head or whose brain isn't producing   
sufficient quantities, or too many quantities, of certain chemicals, is not   
going to react the same way as someone in complete control of their faculties."

"True enough."

"Without civilization, which, I might add, also produced people like us, we'd   
have no way of protecting either them or ourselves, nor of meting out justice if   
we haven't foreseen what they're capable of doing."

"The point, Scully, is that I could have saved a life by mentioning my profile   
earlier."

She stared at him in disbelief. "Mulder - what are you talking about? We only   
got here yesterday."

Mulder lowered his voice as other diners looked their way. "Chapman was killed   
because MacArthur got away. Look at the damage he did to her. How much more   
angry do you think he's going to get? He's not going to wait any longer than   
absolutely necessary to kill again."

"You're not a soothsayer, you can't predict the future -"

His lips quirked slightly. "Can't I? Isn't that what I'm doing here? Trying to   
predict the future?"

"No. _We_ are here to solve this case and prevent more lives from being lost,"   
she leaned towards him. "You're not him, Mulder, nor are you responsible for his   
behavior."

The waiter returned and Mulder paid, feeling guilty for taking his own fear out   
upon his partner. The truth was that he was terrified that any mistake he made   
would endanger the lives of others. It had happened before. Loathe as he was   
to admit it, sometimes he needed the reassurance that it wasn't all his fault.   
Thus was the burden of protecting the innocent, the fear of losing his sanity,   
somewhat eased.

Scully talked him into walking around town, which took all of thirty minutes,   
although he did buy a pair of Sorels at Delmar's, the general store. He   
convinced her that the rest of their evening could be better spent writing up   
reports, so they returned to the Inn.

Mulder had just closed the foyer door when a deep voice boomed out,

"You must be Mulder and Scully. I'm Ken Crandall, out of the Burlington   
Regional Office."

From the timbre of his voice Mulder expected to see a black man, but when he   
turned he was surprised to see Scully shaking hands with a jeans and sweater   
clad blue-eyed, blond behemoth. He had a tan, spoke with a strong Californian   
accent, and had to be at least 6'4", with a physique that would make Skinner   
look puny by comparison. How All American. Had Barbie booked a room, too?   
Mulder gave himself a mental shake. The guy hadn't done anything but say   
'hello' and already he was irritated. It had nothing to do with the way he was   
looking at Scully. Nothing at all. "And you're here to...?"

"ASAC O'Connell wanted to make sure this case was wrapped up nice and quick and   
clean."

"I don't quite understand what you're doing here, Agent Crandall," Scully said.   
"Agent Mulder and myself have the situation under control."

"Ours is not to wonder why," Crandall gave her a lazy, confident smile,   
shrugged. "Maybe O'Connell doesn't want his rep sullied. I was told to come and   
help apprehend this animal, so, here I am. What can you tell me about our   
UNSUB?"

Mulder mentally sighed. "Nothing in great detail. He's white, forty to fifty-  
five, with great physical strength. He's local to the area."

"Well hell, Mulder, that describes half the damned state!" Crandall spoke with   
jovial irritation. Keeping his eyes on Mulder, he bent down towards Scully and   
stage-whispered, "'Spooky' my ass. Anyone could have come up with that profile.   
Is that the best he can do?"

"It's not done yet," Mulder answered mildly. It had been a long time since he'd   
had to defend his abilities, and it was almost amusing having to do it again.   
Of course Crandall was as transparent as glass. Mulder highly doubted anyone   
had sent Crandall, more like the agent had 'suggested' he come over and keep an   
eye on ol' Spooky. Ridiculous.

"What kind of physical evidence have you found from our killer, Dana?" 

"Very little thus far, and Agent Scully will do," she said, pushing past   
Crandall to go upstairs. "Excuse me."

Brows raised, Crandall licked his lips as he watched her leave. "She's a mighty   
fine morsel."

Silence seemed Mulder's best option.

Crandall nudged Mulder with his elbow. "You got dibs?"

For a moment Mulder was rendered speechless. He was, in fact, extraordinarily   
offended. It was bad enough in Washington as it was, he didn't want to deal   
with this kind of gossip in the field as well. A kick to the balls and a knee   
in the face seemed a bit excessive. Sarcasm would just fly over his valley-boy   
head. Playing it straight might confuse the hell out of him. "Why don't you ask   
her?"

Caught out, Crandall blinked stupidly at Mulder before going into a good-ol'   
frat boy routine that probably fooled a hell of a lot of people. He clapped a   
blunt-fingered hand on Mulder's shoulder and chuckled. "Are you kidding me?   
Thanks, but I value my life. They don't call her the Ice Queen for nothing,   
y'know," 

And then, as if to assuage his faux pas, "But hey, I hear she's a shit hot   
investigator."

"She is," Mulder said, moving out from underneath Crandall's grasp. "If you'll   
excuse me, I have to complete my profile."

The other agent nodded amiably. "Sure, sure. I'll go talk to the local law, see   
if I can get this moving any faster."

And the Bureau's rep takes a nose dive with yet another police department.   
Mulder didn't bother to watch Crandall leave. He went upstairs to his room,   
collected pen and journal, knocked softly on Scully's door. "It's me."

She opened it, looked down the hallway. "Is he gone?"

"Yeah," he said, entering her room. "Whitlow's going to flip."

"Is it just me or is Crandall a complete ass?" She sat down at the vanity and   
powered up her laptop. 

Mulder made himself comfy on her bed. "It's not you. Where do they get these   
people? And why do they insist on sending them out of their natural habitat?"

She twisted around in her chair to look at him, murmured, "He's certainly gotten   
under your skin."

"Destined to go far, then," he grumbled. He shoved the pillows behind his back   
and listened to her type, looked out the window.

Five in the afternoon and it was almost pitch black outside. Washington didn't   
have the New England quality of light, which his father had loved. In winter   
the sun rose at a certain angle and painted everything with an odd mix of warm   
and cold, bright and dark. Leafless trees were a forcible record of the season,   
skeletal limbs stark reminder of the dying of the world. The dying of the   
light. Fimbulvetr. Yet pines and fir grew prolifically, red barberries   
standing out against the bloodrust leaves of the barberry bush, cheerful crimson   
hollies from evergreen needles, yellow and orange bittersweet clinging wherever   
it could get a root-hold. Signs of life amidst death. He felt like Persephone   
in the Underworld, sucking a single pomegranate seed. Yes, his father had loved   
the light.

Mulder sighed and drew a few doodles in the margins of the journal. Pentagrams,   
crosshatched boxes, a game of tic-tac-toe. A sketch of Scully's face in   
profile. God, he could be the king of procrastination sometimes. He took a   
deep breath and cleared his mind, began to write:

 **# #  
I'm in the forest. It's where I live.  
I am Alpha. I am Omega.   
I am God.   
# # **

 

_He wants recognition that he is God.  
He takes life because that is what   
God does. April Mahoney was his practice   
run, his practice run, his - his- _

 

His what? Mulder shifted, crossed his ankles the other way around. Did Scully   
always tap her toe when she typed? Oh, the alliteration. She sells seashells by   
the sea shore. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck -

 

_His practice run outside the forest.  
Visible as God. Invisible as Man.   
Immortal. God can take anyone at   
any time. God is beholden to no one._

_Jenny Dubois had stolen into the realm  
of God with neither his notice nor   
permission. Restitution - sacrifice -  
had to be made for her error. _

_Stephen MacArthur erred by running  
away from God._

_Sarah Chapman was put on earth for the  
use of God, an apology from Fate for  
Stephen MacArthur._

 

The question kept returning: why didn't he flay all their faces off? What was   
the rush?

"Mulder, are you coming?" Scully was standing by the open door.

"Hm?" 

"You didn't hear a thing I just said, did you?"

"Sorry, Scully."

"Mae made dinner. Pot roast."

Mulder glanced at his watch - three hours had passed. He shook his head. "No,   
not hungry."

He continued to doodle once she had closed the door. Did all serial killers   
think of themselves as gods? Maybe that was the wrong question, after all, who   
wouldn't feel like a god in the same situation? Perhaps the godhood came in   
choosing to use that power for good or ill. Yet, he couldn't honestly remember   
ever feeling that way during the times he'd been in the same position. Maybe   
his morals constrained him. 

Or did it come down to wanting the power in the first place? What kind of   
person did you have to be to desire the power of death over life? Some would   
argue that trauma doctors and firefighters and cops all wanted to be nothing   
more than little gods, but surely they only used their skills for good, apart   
from a few bad apples?

No, serial killers lacked something fundamental, something unidentifiable.   
Sure, the research came up with the usual pointers: parental alcoholism,   
physical and mental abuse with resultant bedwetting, animal abuse, pyromania.   
But millions of people experienced the same things, yet grew up to be stable and   
functioning members of society. So what made these murderers different? The   
brain injury theory had yet to pan out, although there was factual evidence that   
certain types of brain damage could radically alter personality. Again, though,   
thousands of people had had head injuries, and they weren't serial killers. In   
all the time he'd worked in the ISU and beyond, he still hadn't figured it out,   
what turned these people into monsters. He also wasn't the first to crack under   
the strain of dealing with violent death and mayhem.

Mulder jumped when the door swung open and banged against the wall. 

Scully stalked to the bed. "Would you come downstairs, please?"

Oo, she was in a fearsome temper. He recognized the signs, having been on the   
receiving end more than once.

"He's back, and he's having dinner with us."

"Crandall, I take it?" 

"Dinner with us," she repeated, stabbing a finger at him. "You, me, and Mae."

"Scully, you'll be fine without me."

"I'll kill him."

"You won't. You're the very model of restraint."

She merely looked at him, not even bothering to raise an eyebrow.

Mulder nodded once. "I'll get my shoes on."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't y'weep, pretty baby   
>  (don't y'weep, pretty baby)  
> she's long gone with the red shoes on  
> goin' to need another lovin' baby
> 
> go to sleep little baby  
>  (go to sleep little baby)   
> you and me and the devil makes three   
> don't need no other lovin' baby" 
> 
> O Brother, Where Art Thou?/Didn't Leave Nobody But The Baby  
> (soundtrack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis Freeh was Director of the Bureau when I wrote this story.

Downstairs, both of them slowed in mutual curiosity as they heard Crandall's   
voice. Silverware rattled in the background. 

"Spooky and the Ice Queen, that's what they're called in the Bureau."

"That's not a very nice thing to say, Mr. Crandall. Especially to complete   
strangers? I'm sure the FBI frowns on gossip."

"Well, unless you're planning on calling and telling Louis Freeh personally,   
who's to know?"

Mulder glanced at Scully. She was furious. Ice Queen indeed. Her acceptance   
of his beliefs had made his moniker unimportant, except in the way that it   
affected her. He didn't know how she felt about her own nickname, however.   
Crandall wasn't going to last long if he continued to behave in such an   
unprofessional manner.

"That's not the point, Mr. Crandall."

"Listen, I'm not the one who came up with their names. Besides, they may be   
unorthodox, but they've got a good reputation."

Well, wasn't that nice to know? Mulder put a hand on Scully's back and they   
moved forward into the kitchen.

Setting unmatching Fiestaware plates on the table, Mae cast a welcoming but   
irritated look at Mulder. She glowered at the back of Crandall's head when he   
turned around. 

Crandall was giving Scully the hairy eyeball. Jerk.

"Agent Scully, would you like glass of wine?" Mae asked.

"Oh, please."

"Agent Mulder?"

"I'm fine," he answered, brow wrinkling as he caught Scully's shift from   
annoyance to amusement. "What?"

"You're stealing my lines."

"Am not," All he had to do was distract Scully enough, keep her eyebrows off   
'kill' and Crandall would most likely escape unscathed, providing he kept his   
trap shut. 

A wry twist to his lips, Crandall said, "I hear Diana Fowley was quite an agent.   
You worked with her for a couple of years, didn't you?"

But no, the man was just going to keep jumping into it with both feet. "Yes, I   
did."

"Didn't she and Spender take over Spooky Central for awhile?"

Mulder could feel Scully bristling beside him, even though she didn't actually   
move.

"And quite the looker, eh?"

What fresh hell was this? What on earth was he supposed to say? Diana was   
still a sore spot between him and Scully. He didn't know how she felt about it   
\- oh, that was such a lie - he knew, it was simply easier not to think about the   
damage he'd done. Ironic, that he who often chose to wallow in painful memory   
shirked it in this instance.

"Agent Fowley assisted Agent Mulder, as did Agent Spender," Scully stared at   
Crandall.

"Enough shop talk. These are boiled new potatoes, green beans, and baked sweet   
potatoes," Mae pointed to each covered dish as she spoke. "Bread and gravy are   
coming up, and here's the roast. Help yourselves."

Mulder speared a couple of slices of pot roast and a few green beans before   
passing the dishes on to Scully. He wasn't hungry at all, but there was no way   
he was leaving her or Mae here with that idiot. Not that Scully needed his   
protection. Far from it, he was there to hold her back from pulling her weapon   
on the man. Although the temptation to join her was rapidly increasing with   
every other sentence he spoke. 

"So," Crandall said. "Are you married, Agent Scully?"

She choked on her wine, shot Mulder screaming eyes as she recovered.

"Agent Mulder, did I ever finish telling you about the history of Lincoln?" Mae   
desperately began.

Bless the woman. Lincoln's font of information. "You mentioned something about   
the Underground Railroad, but I'd rather you told me about Jocelyn Kaspar, if   
you know anything about him."

"Good lord, he's a character. Why - ? No," she held up one hand. "You probably   
can't tell me anything. Unless, of course, you think I ought to know."

Mulder glanced at Scully, made sure she wasn't about to throw her dinner at   
Crandall. "Go on."

"Well," Mae spooned mashed sweet potato onto her plate. "His mother used to be   
one of the teachers at the school, y'remember, she's the one who told me how   
Lincoln was named?"

He nodded, admired the succulence of the roast and wished he could fully enjoy   
it.

"Delphine, that was her name. She and her husband, Thierry, came down from   
Quebec City in the 40's. They had a homestead, oh, somewhere around where South   
Trail is, now," she paused in reflection, smiled. "Delphine was pretty, so   
glamorous and foreign compared to the other women in the village at that time.   
She had hair the color of corn silk and a figure to make Mae West jealous. And   
with that french accent, well, men couldn't keep themselves away from her. She   
didn't keep her job at the school very long, and then she couldn't find work   
anywhere else."

"Small towns can be bad for that," Mulder murmured. He knew, he had experienced   
it himself after Samantha's disappearance. Already too smart and too good at   
sports for his own sake, kids pretended to be his friend only to play cruel and   
humiliating jokes on him, taking joy from his distress. He had been so lonely   
then, desperate for any contact besides his grieving, bickering parents.

"Now Thierry was known to be a drinker, and rumors abounded that he regularly   
beat Delphine, too, although I never saw any evidence of that myself."

"Actually, you probably did," Crandall said. He looked extremely uncomfortable   
and wouldn't meet anyone's eyes. "You just didn't recognize it for what it was."

Ah. Hindsight could be a terrible thing to bear. Good to know that there was   
something to Crandall besides poor judgement. Funny, too, as most people who   
had been abused were usually extremely good at reading other people. He'd bet   
Crandall used his build and looks to bamboozle others as a means of protection,   
forgetting how important it was to be able to tell when one was going overboard.   
Didn't make him any less of an asshole, though.

"Anyway," Mae continued after chewing and swallowing a bite of beef. "Pretty   
soon Delphine was drinking too. Jocelyn was born in, oh, '54, '55? I saw him   
when he was just a little baby. She'd come into Delmar's right after he was   
born. So adorable."

Mulder cast a quick look at Scully. Wistfulness suffused her gaze.

Mae took a deep breath. "We didn't see him again until he was five or six. He   
had a habit of starting fires in the hay barns. Well, I shouldn't really say   
that, he was never caught in the act. But, he was always the one to raise the   
alarm, which seemed awfully convenient to me. Whenever Thierry caught him in   
town he'd give him a belting, right there on Main Street. My daddy went   
sugaring with Thierry a few times, said the whole family was meaner than an   
angry bear and far more dangerous."

She paused for a sip of wine and forkful of green beans. "I grew up, went to Mt.   
Holyoke on a scholarship, came back and went to work at the old sawmill on   
Meadow Road. It was strictly secretarial then, unlike today. I envy you young   
women."

Scully smiled. "There's good money in being an administrative assistant these   
days."

"Administrative assistant...the mill was where I met my husband, Elliot. He'd   
come up from Smuggler's Notch to - " Mae shook her head. "Oh, you don't want to   
hear about him. He was a good man, though. Anyhoo, to make a long story a   
little shorter, we moved down to Craftsbury, then Queechee, then back to   
Lincoln. While we were away I kept in touch with Libby MacArthur, she gave me   
all the dirt in town. Apparently a distant cousin of hers, Daisy Taylor,   
disappeared one night. Now you have to understand that she was...of loose   
morals, as we called it back then, so besides her immediate family, no one was   
too bothered. When Elliot and I moved back about a month later, they still   
hadn't found her, but Delphine kept coming in to town ranting and raving that   
Thierry had killed her, and that Jocelyn had helped bury the body."

"What did the police do?" asked Scully.

"Nothing. Everybody in town just assumed she was drunk and telling stories. It   
wasn't until she starting saying that Jocelyn had raped her that an   
investigation began."

"Jesus," Crandall muttered, staring at Mae.

"You'd be surprised by how often that kind of abuse happens in criminal   
families," Mulder said.

Crandall looked disgusted. "Really?"

Mulder nodded, mauled his food around some more to make it look as if he'd   
actually eaten.

"Good lord," Mae shook her head, ate more sweet potato. "The police found no   
proof. Jocelyn, of course, denied everything, and Thierry mocked Delphine in   
front of the police as well as anyone else who came within hearing distance.   
God only knows what happened in that house. Two months later Delphine stumbled   
into town in the middle of winter, stinking of moonshine, saying she'd been   
forced to kill Thierry in self defense. It got chalked up to being talk,   
because they didn't find his body. We all figured he'd gotten lost and someone   
would find him after the spring thaw. Presuming he wasn't eaten by animals.   
But we never did."

"Delphine eventually let the Sisters of Benevolent Mercy over in North Attlee   
take Jocelyn in, although I'm sure she didn't take much convincing. She died   
later that spring when the Kaspar place went up in smoke. I was so busy with my   
own children that I didn't really pay attention to rumor until Jocelyn came back   
to town when he turned eighteen. People said he'd set the fire, drinking gin   
and dancing around the house in the moonlight. Of course that's nonsense, but   
they'll still tell you the same thing today."

"Do you think he did it?" asked Mulder idly.

She shrugged. "Anything's possible. I've always liked Jocelyn, myself. You'd   
never think it to look at him, but he's a bright man. Never went beyond eighth   
grade, never done anything but odd jobs around town, still lives somewhere out   
by his parent's place. Suzie Dulac told me she brings him into Waterloo   
sometimes to pick up packages, so he must have friends somewhere."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Deeper still, that night  
> I write by candlelight, I find insight  
> Fundamental movement, hm, so when it's black  
> This insomniac, take an original tack   
> Keep the beast in my nature   
> Under ceaseless attack   
> I gets no sleep
> 
> I can't get no sleep  
> I need to sleep, I can't get no sleep"
> 
> Faithless/Insomnia/Reverence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard Ramirez was The Night Stalker, a serial killer in California during the 1980s.

_Of murder, Richard Ramirez once said:  
"The power is indescribable...out   
there, you can feel the draining   
of their energy, the total ecstasy.  
Get your mind into it. Savor it."_

_How best to savor the taking of a  
life than to do it over and over again?  
Memory becomes stale over time without  
repeated doses of blood, terror, and   
agony._

_Why feel remorse for killing? Do drug  
addicts feel sorry for the needle or the  
pipe? Their ugliness only adds to the  
experience. For are they not unhappy   
in their existence, those poor, less  
than perfect beings? _

_Is not God merciful?_

 

Mulder rolled his head from side to side, trying to loosen the tension in his   
shoulders. He checked his watch - midnight. Hours to go yet and he was too   
jittery to sleep. He'd had three cups of coffee after dinner, chatting with Mae   
and learning more about Lincoln. She was in the process of self-publishing a   
short history for the Lincoln Preservation Society. Besides being a stop of the   
Underground Railroad - both of her great grandparents had been runaway slaves -   
Lincoln had been a small logging and mill town until the Indian River had been   
dammed. Before that it had been a trading camp for the five tribes of the   
Iroquois Confederation and then another for the English and French settlers as   
the Natives were decimated by war, alcohol, and disease. Ethan Allen himself   
had recruited 10 men for the battle of Fort Ticonderoga, and two had died during   
the Battle of Quebec. And another squad of boys and men joined the Union army   
during the Civil War. All that history and now Lincoln was just a sleepy little   
town near the US-Canadian border.

Yet perhaps that went a long way to figuring out Kaspar. Both town and man were   
isolated, away from what the majority of people would call 'a life'. However Mae   
and Whitlow and everyone else he and Scully had met, even the waitress as the   
Chat 'N' Chew, seemed happy enough. Maybe that was all that mattered. And it   
was easy to see how a person could retain a shell of normality while living a   
life of horror. Small towns were the kind of places where everyone knew one   
another's business, and so never bothered to inquire more deeply into the true   
nature of each other's lives. Good fences make good neighbors.

Stretching out on the bed, Mulder stared at the ceiling, made a half-hearted   
attempt to create hand shadow-puppets before resting his hands on his chest and   
stomach. It was all about the nature of evil. How did you recognize the evil   
in your midst? What's more, what did you do once you knew it? Did you carry on   
as before, or try to call attention to it, make it move on? Such silly   
questions, ultimately. History had proven that the majority of people chose to   
be sheep, going nervously to the slaughter, waiting for someone to speak up and   
save them. The shepherds had proclaimed their intentions and no one had done a   
damned thing until it was far too late. Any high school student could name   
them: Hitler, Pol Pot, Mao, Stalin. But what about more recent events? People   
had ignored Milosevic and Ceaucescou, Hussein and Pinochet, Amin and Duvalier,   
trying to keep themselves safe from the knowledge that in other circumstances it   
could be them living lives of quiet desperation. Okay, maybe not Amin and   
Duvalier, but it had still taken a damned long time for people to prod   
themselves to a moral awakening. And that list didn't even include the   
multitudes of mass murderers who dealt their trade of death through doomsday   
cults.

The banality of evil. Another seemingly trite phrase that was nothing more than   
the truth about a baffling part of human nature. Kaspar was a living example of   
it, one of many. He said hello and goodbye and probably pulled his forelock   
when the occasion demanded it. He also killed and mutilated without hesitation,   
murdered people he'd doubtlessly known for a good few years. A child who'd   
never had the chance to grow up in a normal environment, or what had passed for   
'normal enough' in those days.

In Mulder's limited experience, children were chaotic little creatures with no   
innate sense of right or wrong. Given a rotten home life, was it any wonder   
that so many people had difficulty steering their way through life? But that   
didn't explain the majority, who lived to tell the tale yet made the decision   
not to inflict the same upon their offspring. Hell, he was living proof of   
that, or he would be when he eventually got around to having children.

And of course it didn't explain why so few women became serial killers. Maybe   
they only brought the proverbial guns out when they were threatened in some way?   
Different strategies between predator and nurturer, hunter and gatherer? Aileen   
Wuornos aside, he couldn't think of another woman who had repeatedly killed for   
everything but economic gain.

Mulder flipped over onto his stomach, shoving his journal to one side. He   
propped his chin on his folded hands and closed his eyes again. It was a   
mystery. If Kaspar had been female, he and Scully wouldn't even be here. Nope,   
it would be Whitlow and maybe an agent from the Burlington office, looking at a   
case of 'accidental' poisoning or shooting. 

Women, Mulder felt, were far meaner, far colder, than men. They had an inborn   
ruthlessness that he found shocking. Even Scully had her moments. Men, by   
contrast, were obsessive. Men were the temperamental creatures, full of passion   
and heartbreak, ruled by their hormones. God knew his own passions had ruled   
his head for long enough, at least until Scully had joined the X-Files. Hot   
hearts versus cold. 

Did she think evil had touched her life? Or was it merely coincidence and the   
actions of men who pursued different goals? Would he ever have the balls to ask   
her face to face?

'"God only knows what happened in that house"' Mae had said. Without the modern   
social services, hell, even with the CPS and SS, if was often impossible to   
separate fact from fiction. But, he supposed, better to have both to   
investigate than neither. Which still didn't answer his questions.

Esoteric ideas of philosophy aside, what was Kaspar's passion? What drove him   
to do the things he did? Why had it taken so long for things to come to the   
boil? Was there no pattern of violence against townsfolk throughout the years   
after the death of his mother and the disappearance and presumed death of his   
father? Kaspar's rage obviously hadn't been spent in his youth...maybe he was   
just a slow learner. No, Mae had called him bright. He should have asked her   
why she liked Kaspar, what she saw in him that made him seem harmless when   
others, notably people under forty years old, found him creepy. Then again,   
maybe seeing only the good in people was part and parcel of running a B 'n' B.   
Maybe Kaspar'd gone too long without long term human contact. Odd jobs around   
town weren't the same thing as having lunch with your best friend, or dinner   
with your wife. Ha, he was hardly one to talk.

Mulder sighed heavily, checked the time again. Ye gods, but it was going to be   
a long night.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The night is still,  
> but the sinner is awake  
> and the hour of the wolf is here"
> 
> Hedningarna/Vargtimmen/Tra   
> (trans.)

Whitlow was on the phone when they entered his 'office'. His eyes flicked   
towards them and away. "Colette, ma petite, I don't have the time - "

Mulder stuck his hands in his pockets, rolled a loose coin between his fingers.   
Four in the morning and the world was dead save this last outpost, this one   
building holding on to the warmth and the light. He'd spent the majority of the   
night on Venus and Mars, in the company of Northwest Smith, C.L. Moore's   
enigmatic hero. Mae had been blessed with fine taste when it came to Golden Age   
science fiction, the small bookcase in his room stuffed with Brackett, Van Vogt,   
Piper, Cordwainer Smith. He'd particularly enjoyed rereading Smith's 'Alpha   
Ralpha Boulevard' and 'Golden the Ship Was - Oh! Oh! Oh!'.

"I know it hurts, Ethan. Try to get back to sleep and it'll all be better when   
you wake up. Let me talk to mommy, ok? Colette? Listen, I don't know when   
I'll be back - "

Stifling a yawn - why did he always tire at the precise moment he had to do   
something important - Mulder stepped over to Scully and studied the   
topographical map taped to the backs of one wall of cabinets. Red x-marks-the-  
spot crosses showed where Chapman, Mahoney, and Dubois had been found. There   
was no pattern. The killer - Kaspar, he knew it was Kaspar - didn't care if the   
bodies were found or not. Who cared what happened to the used needle or crack   
pipe? Yet Mulder couldn't leave it up to carelessness, either. Kaspar didn't   
care if they were found - but he arranged them for maximum impact just in case.   
No doubt he, like most serial killers, felt even more powerful, knowing he was   
going to shock and horrify beyond the victim.

Whitlow cleared his throat and joined them at the map, circled an x in the   
south. "The old Kaspar place is a couple of miles from South Trail, and about   
ten miles from East-West Road as the crow flies. There used to be a road to   
their farm, shouldn't be too difficult to find now that all the undergrowth is   
covered. Okay, everybody ready?"

They arrived at South Trail almost two hours later. Somebody had forgotten to   
load the snowmobiles on Whitlow's truck the day before, and then they had to   
check to see if the tanks were full and so on. Whitlow was still embarrassed   
and trying not to show it. Crandall kept cracking asinine comments until Scully   
had had a quiet word, spoken too softly for Mulder to hear. Whatever she said,   
it worked, because he shut up immediately thereafter.

Eager as he was to get to Kaspar, Mulder didn't relish the thought of trying to   
find the old road and the burned out shell of a farmhouse on a bitterly cold   
winter morning. Nerves and the beyond crappy cup of coffee he'd gotten at the   
office got the better of him and he spent a brief minute behind a tree, fingers   
and other parts numbed in seconds. As he zipped up, Crandall hurried over.

Crandall said, "Wind's picked up. Must be an Alberta Clipper coming in. Hope   
we're not out here too long - "

Mulder nodded and walked away, leaving Crandall to his business. For the   
umpteenth time he wondered why female officers and agents never seemed to be   
perturbed enough to have to duck behind a bush during stakeouts and the like.   
Maybe they all went before they left the building.

The moon was full and riding midway between frozen earth and pinprick stars. It   
was so bright he and Scully almost didn't need to use their flashlights to spot   
Whitlow and Crandall as they unloaded the snowmobiles. The forest was   
beautiful, a secret sanctuary from the daytime hustle and bustle of humanity.   
He turned off the flashlight and a millisecond later Scully turned hers off as   
well. He looked down at her to remark upon the serendipity of their actions,   
only to see her gazing up at him, smiling and making a promise with her eyes he   
didn't dare decipher until later. Their private moment of shared blissful   
serenity shattered as a snowmobile roared to life. With mutual, unspoken   
consent, Scully headed towards Whitlow while he took the seat behind Crandall.

The world beyond the headlights was filled with black tree trunks, moonshadow   
blue snow, the brilliant coal red square of a brake light. The snow was icy and   
hard, glittering as the white lights struck it. The ride was uncomfortable, the   
Ski-Doo careening from side to side from the lack of good grip on the sugar snow   
of the track. Worst of all, the wind crept in through his clothes, fingering   
his collar and slipping icy fingers down the back of his neck. At least the   
helmet kept his ears and head warm.

Time passed in a blur of man-made thunder and exhaust, the 'road' little more   
than a meandering trail once wide enough for a single car, now overgrown with   
saplings and brush. Crandall swerved often, but even so, whip thin branches   
occasionally lashed Mulder's legs and slapped his helmet. Learning to drive a   
snowmobile was the latest item to go on his personal list of things to   
accomplish Real Soon Now. He wondered if Crandall could really see anything or   
if he was simply following Whitlow's taillight, the arboreal abuse Mulder   
received an unlooked for benefit.

Still, it was eerie, especially now, with the woods vigilant, waiting to see if   
he was going to mete out justice as he had promised. He felt, oddly enough,   
both welcomed and opposed. Welcome so long as punishment was given, yet pray   
not overstay that welcome. '"Anthropomorphizing again, Mulder?"' Scully teased   
in his head. Yeah, well.

Crandall drew even with Whitlow, slowed, stopped. The deep silence was shocking   
when Mulder removed his helmet. They were in a small clearing, an equally   
small, one storey building before them and to the right. A secondary, scaled   
down roof was raised over the primary. Plastic sheeting puffed and crackled in   
the gaps between the rooves. The snow was lumpy in front of the house. If the   
road continued on through the now widely spaced trees, he couldn't tell.

"We must have passed the farm, this here's the sugarhouse," Whitlow said,   
putting his helmet on the seat of his snowmobile.

"Sugarhouse?" Crandall asked.

"It's how they used to make maple syrup," Mulder answered, playing his   
flashlight over the lumps. Most of them were too small to be bodies, and one   
was definitely a car. Rusty metal traps, hoes, rakes, and a shovel hung on   
nails on the outer wall of the house. 

"Actually, it's still how they make it," Whitlow said. "It's just more   
sanitized, no more sap buckets hanging from nails in the tree. Now you've got   
tap lines left up all year round. Did y'know that forty gallons of sap boils   
down to one gallon of syrup?"

"Gah," Crandall shook his head. "to think I'm eating tree blood."

Weapon drawn, Mulder carefully followed Scully to the front door, said softly,   
"Pretty gnarly, dude."

Scully flashed him an amused look, raised her free hand to knock.

The whipcrack of a gunshot broke the stillness, echoing away into the distance   
as Mulder spun and crouched. 

Whitlow was staring at Crandall, who was lying flat on the ground, gun pointed   
at the sky. "False alarm! He slipped!"

Heart racing, Mulder exhaled and stood up. The damned fool hadn't had his   
safety on - if he'd been facing any of them - christ, he could killed someone! 

"Sorry, sorry," Crandall called, sitting up and cautiously getting to his feet.   
He grimaced and gingerly felt the back of his head, looked at his fingers. "I'm   
all right, I'll be alright. Let's get on with this."

Scully turned around and knocked. "Federal Agent! Hello? Mr. Kaspar? I'm   
Special Agent Dana Scully - could I speak with you?"

There was no answer. 

"I doubt he's here," Whitlow called, chipping hard snow off the car-lump with   
the butt of his flashlight. "He would've heard us coming from miles away, even   
with this wind. I told you he likes to keep to himself."

And if he wasn't aware of them before, he sure as hell was now. Mulder moved to   
the right while Scully took the left, then pounded on the door. "Mr. Kaspar?"

After a moment Scully raised an eyebrow, crouched and tried the old fashioned   
iron latch. The door swung open, bounced against something behind it.

Mulder gave the single room a quick once over with the flashlight, then motioned   
Scully inside. She moved in with him one step behind, facing the door all the   
while. Keeping an eye out for any surprises, Mulder shone the light behind the   
door - there was nothing there but two 100 lbs bags of flour.

"Nobody home," Scully said, holstering her gun. 

Whitlow poked his head in and said, "Agent Crandall's feeling a little woozy.   
I'll keep an eye on him while you two have a gander in here."

Mulder nodded. From the inside the double roof abruptly made sense. If you   
were boiling away lots of liquid, what better way to let all the steam escape   
than to raise the roof and open up vents that could double as windows? Plastic   
was certainly cheaper than glass, although it wouldn't let in as much light   
during the day. The building had been insulated, however, pink fiberglass   
looking like bagged cotton candy behind even more plastic sheeting that had been   
stapled to the walls. It was noticeably warmer once the door was closed.

"God, this place is filthy," Scully murmured, surveying the room.

The house - shack - whatever - was crammed but smelled of nothing in particular   
except woodsmoke. Furniture consisted of an iron frame double bed covered with   
a number of motheaten and stained wool blankets, a crudely made chair and a   
rough table constructed out of two-by-fours. A black pot bellied parlor stove   
was in the corner next to the table, the fiberglass insulation protected by two-  
by-four makeshift walls. Three Coleman kerosene lanterns hung from the ceiling   
and a box of candles on the table provided evidence of lighting. The stove was   
warm, the iron frying pan on top of it filled with grease just going opaque.

"Look at this, Mulder," Scully stood on the other side of the stove. "He's got   
everything you need for the non-refrigerated life."

Sure enough, the shelves held cans of Spam, corned beef hash, Campbell's soups,   
5 O'Clock Coffee, Carnation Condensed milk, molasses, a gallon can of maple   
syrup, Crisco, a small jar of salt. Kaspar had also bought multiples of   
sardines and tuna, creamed corn, tomatoes, green 99c stickers still on the   
plastic wrapping. On a raised pallet close to the door were a 100 lbs bag of   
salt, another of rolled oats and a 50 lbs bag of kidney beans.

What Mulder found most surprising were the books. They were stacked everywhere,   
on the table, the floor, the shelves. He moved closer to check the authors and   
got an even greater shock. Kaspar had gone far with his eighth grade education   
\- Heidegger, Proust, Descartes, Plato, Socrates, even Aquinas, all of them in   
their original languages. Surely Kaspar didn't speak more than English? No, he   
was bright, not a genius. As if to balance the great thinkers, the opposite end   
of the spectrum was also well represented - underneath the table were stacks of   
60's and 70's Playboys and an 80's Hustler. Scully hadn't commented on that   
particular find. Maybe she hadn't noticed? Yeah...riiight.

Elsewhere, clothing hung from nails and hooks on the walls away from the stove.   
A green tin of something called Bag Balm and a turquoise can of Drum tobacco   
were on the shelf above the bed, plus rolling papers, more matches, and several   
black and white Composition notebooks. Mulder pulled one down at random and   
flipped it open. The chicken scrawl was tiny and illegible. 

Scully came up and looked over his arm. "Anything interesting?"

"Hell if I know, can't read a damn thing," Mulder answered. He picked another   
notebook, tossed it onto the bed after a cursory glance. "He's probably giving   
Ted Kaczynski a run for his money."

"So now what? Do we stake the place out?"

Mulder shook his head in frustration. "Yes, no, I don't know. I don't want to   
give him any more time, but if we stay here he'll just pick us off one by one."

She nodded. "Okay. I'll have Whitlow put out an APB, plus a PSA on the radio   
and posters around town," she paused, regarded him with understanding, or maybe   
it was pity. "It's the best we can do for the moment, Mulder."

"Let's hope the best we can do doesn't get another person killed," he said   
morosely.

Her head snapped towards the door. She threw up one hand to silence him.

"What?" 

"Did you hear something?"

Mulder listened for a couple of heartbeats, frowned.

Switching off her flashlight, she walked softly to the door and put her ear up   
to it, then opened it a crack. After a moment she removed her jacket to prevent   
unnecessary noise, drew her gun and thumbed off the safety. 

He did the same, followed her outside. Dawn had broken and spears of sunlight   
penetrated the forest, little fingers of god touching the snow. Crandall and   
Whitlow were nowhere in sight. Stepping away from Scully, he signed towards the   
snowmobiles in two directions. 

She bobbed her head and broke to the left. 

Eyes wide, he went right, scanning the trees while trying to avoid the bigger   
snowy lumps at the same time. He skirted between the car and the house, noted   
the fresh yellow stains in the snow. Christ, had Kaspar been there all along,   
biding his time while they were dithering about how maple syrup was made? He   
circled wide to make sure there wasn't anyone behind the house, then headed for   
the snowmobiles. 

The trees made him nervous. Kaspar could be lurking behind any of them,   
watching their every move. Couldn't be helped. He took another step into a   
sunny spot, silently cursed as his foot broke through the hard top crust of   
snow, scaring the crap out of him. Luckily, it wasn't too deep and he didn't   
fall. 

Mulder drew even with the snowmobiles, saw Crandall and Whitlow lying on the   
ground, a pool of blood staining the snow beneath them. He motioned to Scully,   
senses heightened as she scooted to where the men lay. 

She bent down and felt their necks, nodded. 

Still alive, then. He opened his mouth to speak and heard the faint crunch of   
brittle snow to his left. He glanced towards Scully - 

Go, she mouthed, holstering her gun. 

Trying to run on the hard, slick crust of snow while at the same time looking   
and listening for Kaspar was difficult at best, especially when he was breaking   
through with every other step. Mulder found the spot where Kaspar had broken   
through and stopped, surveying the woods. Miraculously, the wind died down.

God, he hadn't thought it possible for him to forget what really cold weather   
was like, yet somehow, back in the supposed real world, he had. And now here he   
was, trying to stifle the coughs threatening to rip his lungs apart. Oh yeah,   
bitter cold dry air meets warm, wet lung - what a winning combination!

There was sudden moment to his left, a single branch waving in the non-existent   
breeze. Mulder pointed his gun and cautiously arced around the tree. Nothing.   
Nothing apart from the strong stench of urine and wet bark. What the hell was   
Kaspar doing, marking his territory?

"Damnit," he whispered. He made another circuit of the area, looking for   
further signs of...pee. Christ, he could scarcely feel his fingers, he'd be   
lucky if he could pull the trigger. Kaspar could keep him running in circles   
all day, bringing him further into the woods until he dropped from exhaustion. 

Mulder cursed under his breath again, then searched for a good ten minutes until   
he found the wet tree once more. From there it only took a moment to find his   
own trail, and then he was on his way. Unfortunately he came to the spot where   
he hadn't broken the crust, losing his direction. He was getting frantic when   
the preliminary cough of an engine failing to catch caught his attention.   
Staggering and slipping, he raced towards the sound, falling hard on one knee   
and ripping both jeans and longjohns.

The side of the sugarhouse was visible through the trees when he heard Scully   
yell,

"Federal Agent! I'm armed!" 

Clearing the last tree before the house, he saw Scully make a flying tackle   
towards the back of the snowmobile that Kaspar was driving away. A body was   
slung over the backseat, it looked like Whitlow, although he couldn't be sure.   
The snowmobile was picking up speed, but Scully hung on, one arm around Kaspar's   
neck, trying to pull him off. Instead, she forced Kaspar to turn the vehicle in   
Mulder's direction.

Kaspar gunned the engine, reached up and tore her arm away. She fell off with a   
piercing cry, the body on the back tumbling on top of her.

Mulder launched himself towards the moving snowmobile, grabbing hold of Kaspar's   
jacket, his waist. The engine was horribly loud, and he was terrified of the   
rear treads running over his legs. He hooked one leg over the back seat, using   
Kaspar for leverage. The man looked down and snarled, cuffed him hard on the   
side of his head, making his ears ring. He refused to let go, even though he   
was hanging on only by the skin of his teeth.

Kaspar swerved to the right and Mulder lost his grip on the jacket. Back   
muscles protested as he twisted, momentum flinging his right arm out into the   
air. He managed to regain a handhold on the seat, only to feel an incredible   
burn along his left side. With a knee on the tail-end of the running board, he   
hitched himself off the snowcrust, trying to pull Kaspar off at the same time. 

Kaspar wasn't having any of it, though. Mulder clung to him as he whipped the   
snowmobile from side to side. When he abruptly glanced down and grinned - oral   
hygiene obviously not high on his priorities - Mulder had an awful foreboding of   
what was coming. He looked straight ahead and immediately let go of Kaspar,   
kicking away from the Yamaha. Energy and mass kept him going forward, however,   
the friction of skin and cloth against the icy sugar snow not enough to keep him   
from hitting the tree, spinning him around to face the opposite direction on the   
other side of the tree. 

Pain flared from hip to bottom rib and he wept from the shock of it as the   
forest returned to silence. When he could get his muddled thoughts together,   
he slowly rolled onto his hands and knees, pressed a hand to his left side. He   
was going to have one hell of a bruise, if not internal injuries. His skin was   
raw where his sweater and shirt had been pulled out of his pants, and it felt   
like a cheese grater had been run across his side, but at least there didn't   
seem to be any fractured ribs. Using the tree to lean on, he got to his feet   
and followed the broken snow and torn bits of clothing back to Scully. 

As he neared the remaining snowmobile, he called out, strangling his cry into   
the loudest of whispers. "Scully!" Where the hell was she? 

"Mulder!" Scully called from door of the sugarhouse. "Are you okay?"

Mulder grimaced and nodded, limped over to where she stood. "You?"

She stepped back to let him in. "Wrenched my shoulder when I pulled Crandall   
back here, did it again when I grabbed for Whitlow after Kaspar pushed me off   
the Yamaha. Where is he, anyway?"

No room on the bed, not with Whitlow and Crandall taking up all the space.   
Whitlow's head was wrapped in bloodstained cloth. He shook his head, perched on   
the edge of the table instead. "I don't know, I couldn't track right after he   
ditched me."

"God, let me take a look at you...what the hell happened out there?"

Mulder raised what remained of his shirt and sweater, hissed as Scully gently   
probed his side. "Let's just say that being dragged in real life is not as easy   
as the movies make it look," he said, noting how stiffly she moved as she took   
one of Kaspar's shirts from the wall. He took it from her after she gasped,   
folded it and held it against his side. "How are they?"

Scully turned her whole body to look at the two men on the bed. "They need   
hospital treatment. Whitlow...isn't looking good. He's got a concussion at   
best, and I suspect a fractured skull. Crandall's got a goose-egg on the back of   
his head, although I don't know if that's from his fall or from Kaspar."

He may not have liked the man, but he didn't wish him severe injury, either.   
Not from a suspect, at least. "How long until the cavalry arrive?"

Scully sighed and carefully sat down in the single chair. "Kaspar took all the   
radio equipment and the keys to the other snowmobile, so we're stuck here for   
the moment. I put a couple of logs in the stove, hopefully it'll get warmer   
fairly soon. I've already tried my phone but we're out of range."

Wonderful. "Let's make ourselves at home then, shall we?"

"Oh, by all means, Mulder. Knock yourself out." 

As it turned out, they didn't wait for more than half the day before the noise   
of multiple snowmobile engines permeated the woods. Three hours after that they   
were in Waterloo's tiny hospital, where Crandall was diagnosed with a cracked   
skull, a simple fracture which required no further attention. Whitlow, on the   
other hand, was immediately flown to the neurology unit at Fletcher Allen in   
Burlington. Mulder spent the next two days under observation - he wasn't up to   
facing the Wrath of Scully by trying for an early release. Indeed, in all   
honesty, the prospect of internal bleeding or peritonitis from unknown internal   
injuries didn't particularly appeal. His blood-tinged urine and the ache in his   
back was bad enough, indication of the bruising his left kidney had taken when   
he'd hit the tree. And anyway, he needed the sleep.

He bullied Scully into letting him drive after he was released. Normally he   
would have been happy enough to let her drive back to Lincoln and then on to   
Burlington, but although she made a gallant try, she couldn't hide her winces   
and audible whimpers. He sympathized. Wrenched muscles were never nice, and   
back muscles were the worst, as the pain effected everything you took for   
granted, like turning your head and sleeping. "I don't suppose you left our   
things back at the Inn?"

She didn't look at him as she replied. "Nope."

Trust Scully to try and make things easier on him when he could have handled it   
himself. At least the journey back to Lincoln was pleasant. Crandall's Alberta   
Clipper had given hell on its way to the Atlantic, leaving clear blue skies and   
bright sunshine behind along with two feet of fresh powder on the ground. 

Oona MacArthur slopped coffee all over the table when she spied them walking   
through the front door of the church. "Agent Mulder, how are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you," he replied. 

"Is there any word on Sheriff Whitlow?" asked Scully.

Mopping up the spilled coffee with a couple of napkins, Oona shook her head.   
"He's in a coma. As to whether he'll survive..."

Mulder certainly hoped he would, declined her offer at her enquiring lift of the   
coffee pot. 

"Wise man," she said. 

"What about Kaspar?"

"Haven't found him yet, although we've got a massive manhunt out for him. He   
might be an oldtimer, but we've got modern technology on our side.   
Unfortunately all this new snow is making things both simpler and more   
difficult. He'll be easier to track, but harder to get to," Oona added creamer   
to her cup, stirred. "What I don't understand is how he got around. I mean, he   
doesn't have a car or a snowmobile, and although the assumption's that he's been   
using Jenny's ski's for the past few days..."

"Would people have given him a lift if they saw him walking down the road?" 

"Sure."

"Then maybe Chapman picked him up - "

"But there's no evidence of that, Mulder," interrupted Scully. "In fact there   
was no physical evidence that another person had been at any of the crime   
scenes, the bootprints on Chapman excepted. You both know how much that verges   
on the impossible."

"Well, those women certainly didn't kill themselves, Scully," Mulder said,   
ignoring her unusually weak mini-glare. It was excusable, she wasn't her normal   
self.

"Why do you think he murdered them?" Oona asked. She blew on her cup, tested   
the temperature with a tiny sip.

"As for what triggered him, who knows? Maybe he got up on the wrong side of the   
bed."

"Oh, I did tell you about the root cellar, right?" she asked, glancing from   
Mulder to Scully. "Ah, I didn't. They found it early this morning when they   
were dismantling his house. A trapdoor underneath the table which they probably   
never would have noticed if his stack of porn hadn't fallen over."

Ah, there was Scully's self-satisfied little smirk. He knew she had seen them,   
but he'd figured she wasn't going to comment. 

"What they found..." Oona wrinkled her nose in disgust. "The faces. The organs,   
stuffed and hanging from the joists like sausages."

There was a special horror in cannibalism which wasn't merely from the   
desecration of the dead. Of course it was different if there was a cultural   
precedent, or if it was a matter of survival. The hunting and harvesting of   
humans for no other reason than lunch was one of only a few taboos that modern   
people didn't break. It was a line Mulder was glad the overwhelming majority   
chose not to cross.

He wondered, though, what would happen should enough people do it once...?   
Would the effect be the same one as the Hundredth Monkey, learned cannibalism   
cascading from person to person, culture to culture, country to country? He   
shivered at the thought. But it also begged the further question - when had   
their ancestors stopped eating one another in the first place, what was once   
common and practically ordinary? Forensic anthropology suggested ritualistic   
cannibalism, but he wasn't so sure it was...what if those rituals had just been   
the end play of a very very long game? In that light, couldn't Kaspar and   
others like Jeffrey Dahmer be the last gasps in a long chain of people   
throughout history? Only time would tell, and Mulder suspected that _Homo  
Sapiens Sapiens_, being the product of millions of years of evolution and a few   
thousand years of civilization would never get the taste, so to speak, out of   
its collective mouth. Scully had been right after all, humanity did need its   
civilized mask of behavior.

"Oona, we've got to go," Scully said, checking her watch. "But if you're ever in   
Washington, give us a call. We'll take you to lunch."

Mulder looked at Scully in surprise. He couldn't recall her ever having   
extended an invitation to someone they'd met on a case. He shook hands with   
Oona as well, only to be caught off guard when she suddenly leaned forward. Her   
warm breath tickled his ear as she spoke.

"Blessed be, Agent Mulder. Peace be upon you."

He thanked her and headed out the door. Getting into the car, he noticed the he   
ghost of a smile haunting Scully's lips. "What?"

"She likes you, Mulder."

He stared at her. "Who - Oona?"

She gave him the 'no duh' Look. "Um, yeah."

"'Like' like me, or just like me?" 

"The former." 

Pondering this new information for a brief moment, he turned the key in the   
ignition. "Jealous?"

"Oh, please." 

Mulder smiled and put the car in reverse. 

"Y'know, the only thing about this town I'm going to miss is that bathtub," she   
muttered.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm talking loud and clear saying just what I feel  
> lying in the grass with the sun on our backs  
> it doesn't really matter what we do or what we say  
> with every little movement, we give ourselves away"
> 
> OMD/Talking Loud and Clear/Best of OMD  
> (Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NoRoMos should stop reading now.
> 
> The [image](http://xfdryad.livejournal.com/22652.html) from Mulder's dream.
> 
> The other events that led up to the action of this chapter can be found in the listed order below. Please be aware these are as sappy as I get.
> 
> The Song Cycle [Yes, I know]:
> 
> The Gift  
> The Fight  
> Halcyon Dreaming  
> One Ordinary Day  
> Manitou

Rain pounded against the windshield, the wipers barely able to keep the glass  
clear enough for Mulder to see the road. The bright afternoon light of northern  
Vermont had degraded into the dull, rainswept evening of the mid-Atlantic  
seaboard. Crimson taillights led the way home. He yawned and glanced over at  
Scully. She'd taken painkillers on the way to Lincoln and at the airport, and  
was now slumped against the passenger door, fast asleep. 

Arriving at the turnoff which would bring them to her apartment, he drummed his  
fingers on the steering wheel and made a snap decision. If he was lucky she  
wouldn't hurt him too much for his assumption.

She woke at his light touch on her shoulder, didn't say a word about being in  
the parking lot of his apartment building instead of her own. Once inside she  
headed directly for the bathroom. Mulder dropped their bags on the floor and  
took off his coat, hung it up on the red nine ball of the coatrack. Food, that  
was what they both needed.

He was too hungry to wait for take out, so he popped a container of frozen  
chicken noodle soup in the microwave, ate a couple of slices of toast to stave  
off his complaining stomach. When Scully didn't reappear by the time it was  
ready, he poured himself a mug of soup, grabbed a spoon and headed into the  
living room. He really hoped she wasn't taking a bath, he had the feeling she  
wouldn't come out until she looked like a prune, and he wanted a shower before  
he went to bed. To couch. Halfway through dinner, fishing for the remaining  
noodle that simply refused to stay on the damned spoon, he heard the bathroom  
door open, then Scully rustling around the bedroom. She came out a few minutes  
later, hair damp, dressed in plum colored satin pj's. He said, "There's soup if  
you're hungry."

"God, yes, I'm starved." 

Mulder laced his fingers together around the mug, let its warmth soak into his  
bones. Funny, he felt colder here than he had in Vermont.

"Did you make this?" she enquired, dropping down slowly next to him, her own mug  
of soup in hand.

"Does that surprise you so much?"

"No."

He raised an eyebrow.

She had the grace to look a bit embarassed. "Well, what do you expect? Every  
time I come over here we end up having pizza or chinese."

"Before Samantha left, I loved to cook with my mother. I even know how to make  
Kugel. Of course this isn't real Jewish chicken soup, but what the hell, I like  
noodles."

"And here's me beginning to think your cooking skills were poor enough to burn  
water."

"My momma din't raise no foo'," he said, complete with sneer and snaking head.  
And then, at her wide-eyed gaze, "If you're going to keep up with slang, Scully,  
you have to watch late night Jerry Springer."

"Mulder, you're really beginning to scare me now."

"Shut up and eat your soup, woman," he growled affectionately, getting up. Time  
for a quick shower, then he was going to pass out on the couch. Two days in the  
hospital in a semi-private room with a man who had brought new meaning to the  
phrase 'coughing your lungs out' had afforded him little rest. The numerous  
tests at all hours hadn't helped much either.

Mulder showered, used Scully's damp towel because he kept forgetting to add  
another one to the rack. He didn't know which was sillier, that he had thought  
of it in the first place despite the fact that she had never bathed here before,  
or his sniffing the towel before he used it. 

"I got it bad, and that ain't good," he softly sang, scrutinizing his eyes in  
the semi-clear mirror. A sad song, but that was alright, it was only the title  
that mattered. And even then it was off - he had it bad, but it was good. Of  
course he'd had it bad for years, but some lines weren't meant to be crossed  
once, never mind twice, or so he kept telling himself. His inner critic  
correctly diagnosed the problem - he was a chickenshit - while heart and soul  
clung to hope like a drowning man to a life preserver. Forget being rational  
and actually bringing the subject up in conversation, oh no, the fear of  
rejection and consequential abandonment was far too frightening to contemplate.  
Hell, he didn't even like thinking of it now. So he avoided the issue entirely,  
and they went their merry way as if nothing at all had happened between them in  
the past year. 

Disgusted with himself, he roughly toweled as much water out of his hair as he  
could, then reached for the clean pair of boxers...which he'd left on the bed.  
He eyed his trousers, decided to risk seeing if Scully was in bed yet instead.  
Opening the door a crack, he peeked out, spied her form under the covers, facing  
towards the living room. Was she asleep? Well...it wasn't like she hadn't  
seen him naked before...nonetheless, he wrapped the towel around his waist,  
scooted out to snag his boxers and draw them on, his actions silhouetted on the  
far wall by the bathroom light, steam curling around his body with a phantom's  
caress.

The living room and kitchen were dark, and although he knew she had cleaned and  
locked everything up, making his apartment safe, he went through the motions  
anyway. He glanced from couch to bedroom. The covers on the empty half of the  
bed had been flung back in open invitation. If he were smart he'd take the  
couch...but the bed looked far more comfy, especially with his own personal red-  
headed water bottle hotting up the sheets. His back and side would appreciate  
it too. Yeah, that was it, it would be better for his injuries.

Choice made, he turned off the bathroom light and lay down on the bed. It took  
a few minutes to find a position which didn't hurt. He ended up on his right  
side, the wrong side, back to back with Scully instead of spooning as he was  
wont to do. He sighed and snuggled beneath the blankets.

**Mulder sits at a desk in a white field. The desk is that of a child's from the  
** turn of the century; wooden, slanted, initials carving themselves into the top.  
Evergreens wave in the distance, and he feels a stiff breeze against his face,  
ruffling his hair. The sky is flatly overcast, pale metallic winter gray. He  
feels like he should be cold, but he isn't, due maybe to the fact that he wears  
his favorite suit and his black wool coat. There's a scalpel in his hand, which  
strikes him funny, so he laughs, because the tools of his trade are razor sharp  
words under the guidance of his equally honed wit. Actual tools are blunt by  
comparison. 

**He sets the scalpel to the parchment on the desk. He presses down, draws a thin  
** line, the paper, no, the vellum - parchment colored vellum - bleeds black ink.  
The vellum dimples here and there, the ink creeps around to form a face. Four  
lines and two dots for eyes, a T for brows and nose, three lines for a full,  
pouty mouth. He leans back in the chair, watches a fine paint brush sketch his  
mother's place in Greenwich in indigo, his father's in West Tisbury, the old  
house in Chilmark with the white Hydrangea's in the front. And, strangely, Bill  
Scully's former abode in San Diego. 

**Peaks and valleys appear as the face pushes up the vellum and becomes three  
** dimensional. Panic engulfs Mulder as it opens its mouth in a wide, silent  
scream. It floats towards him, equally threatens and accuses him of not doing  
enough, of not saving - who is he supposed to save? And from what? Every  
muscle in his body tenses, trembles with the urge to flee, even though the face  
is gone. 

**Now he runs through syrup, sugar on the snow hardens and locks his feet his  
** ankles his knees in place, heart near to bursting as it pounds. Sweat rolls off  
his forehead as he looks over his shoulder. The figure he runs from is Inuit,  
Eskimo of old, the face invisible in the darkness of its fur rimmed hood. It is  
neither man nor woman. It walks towards him endlessly, booted legs disappearing  
half-way down the calf. It is not walking on the snow but above. 

**The figure frightens him immensely, omniscient and omnipotent, menacing with  
** unknown intent. Tears slip down his cheeks as he struggles to remember the  
magic words which will release him from this prison. 

Mulder woke with a gasp. He stared at the ceiling wide-eyed, blood thudding in  
his ears. Jesus, he hadn't had that dream in years, not since the early days of  
working on the X-Files. They had been most frequent when he'd worked in the ISU  
and VCS, gradually dying away after he'd left. But to dream of the Inuit now  
was extraordinary. The unknown no longer startled him as it once had, becoming,  
in fact, more ordinary with each passing day. This wasn't to say that it no  
longer excited him or made the cases any less interesting, only that time and  
experience had tempered his enthusiasm. Scully's goddamned rationalism and  
science had infiltrated after all despite his determination for the opposite to  
occur.

The truth was that the Inuit was but one in a host of repetitive dreams. It  
wasn't the worst, although it was one of the most frightening, for reasons he  
still didn't understand. The only parts which varied were the buildings drawn  
on the vellum. The other dreams were more graphic, filled with gore and smoke  
and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Physician, heal thyself, he mused.  
Patient dreams of unidentifiable mythic figure, symbolic both of the unknown and  
apprehension of it. As for its genderless state, well, danger lurked in all  
shapes and sizes. 

Scully entered the room, bearing two cups. "Morning."

"Coffee," he murmured, pushing himself up against the  
headboard. "Scully, you're a goddess."

"And you've only just reached this conclusion after how many years of working  
together?" She tucked one leg underneath her as she sat. "How're you feeling?"

"I've survived worse," he said. Ah, caffeine, lifeblood of the modern working  
man and woman. He stretched and wondered just how domestic Scully was feeling.  
Unless his judgement was way off, she was in a fairly good mood in spite of the  
pain she was obviously suffering from. The coward dies a thousand deaths, the  
brave man but one. "I'm ravenous."

If he hadn't been gazing hopefully at her, visions of hot buttered toast running  
through his mind, he might have missed her lips moving and chalked what she said  
up to his imagination.

She beheld the contents of her cup with a Mona Lisa smile and said very softly,  
"You could always eat me."

Mulder blinked. 

'"You could always eat me"'. Like it was something he heard from her every  
other day. The phone rang in the other room, and neither of them moved.  
Machine could get it. 

"Agent Mulder, uh, this is Bill Scully, I was wondering if you'd - "

Scully flew off the bed faster than Superman. Jaw slack with astonishment that  
turned into a yawn, he stretched and shifted to ease the soreness in his back.  
He couldn't believe she'd actually said that. Scully always made and responded  
to innuendo with sarcasm so sharp it could make stone bleed, but she never made  
outright suggestions concerning herself. Especially not to him, not anymore. 

He took another sip, then got up and used the toilet, washed his face. She was  
back on the bed when he returned, drinking her coffee as if she hadn't said  
anything out of the ordinary.

"That was Bill," She unnecessarily explained. "He says 'hello'."

"Your brother has my home number?" He felt a bit...nervous...happy...nervously  
happy...at the prospect. 

"Mm." 

Well, well, well. Mulder hoped his delight didn't show. Bill Scully had his  
home phone number. It was incredible, this recognition and so public  
announcement of his standing in her life. He wished he had someone he could  
tell, someone who would understand the significance of Scully's actions. Of  
course, the only person he could talk to was her. "So what are you saying here,  
Scully? You moving in?"

"Only if you get rid of that coatrack," She looked askance at  
him briefly before studying everything in the room besides himself. 

Women just didn't like the thing for reasons he couldn't fathom.

Then, with an eye-roll and a slightly raised brow, "Mulder, I'm joking."

That's what he got for letting his fantasies run away with his common sense.

"This place is way too small for the both of us."

"Scully, I haven't had enough coffee to keep up with this conversation," he  
said. Max Fenig had pegged it right when he'd called her enigmatic. Just when  
Mulder was sure their...relationship, for lack of a better word, wasn't  
progressing at its usual snail's pace, she threw the proverbial spanner in the  
works. Jesus.

"I'd better get ready," she said. "Are you staying home today?" 

"Mm," No, he wouldn't let her get away so easily. He grabbed her free hand,  
held it loosely in his own. "I would, y'know."

She didn't say anything, but her eyes, her eyes darkened almost imperceptibly.  
The corner of her mouth curled up every so slightly, and he released her. Non-  
verbal communication, they had it in spades. "How is he, anyway?"

Her lips quirked, then. "He's fine. He wants to me to go camping this weekend,  
if I'm free."

"In December?"

"Yep. My father used to take the boys up to this winter camp in Virginia, going  
fishing, hiking, doing man things."

"No room for the girls, hunh," he muttered, feeling obscurely envious for her.  
And for himself.

She flashed him an understanding smile. "It was a different time."

"Well, it'll be good for you to get away for awhile," Mulder slid to the edge of  
the bed and carefully got to his feet. What on earth had possessed him to sleep  
on his back? He knew better, for godsakes. He headed towards the living room  
so she could dress in private.

"You'd better not ditch me - " 

Her voice continued for a moment longer after he closed the door. He suspected  
the words she used might just have included 'ass' and 'hole'. Anyway, time to  
hunt something down for breakfast. 

By the time she emerged from the bedroom he was at his desk, laboriously typing  
his field notes into the pc. He stopped to eat a slice of toast, watched as she  
got ready for work. She was dressed impeccably in the navy trouser suit which  
he'd never let her know he adored. "Hey Scully?"

"Yeah?" she answered absentmindedly. 

"How do you run in those shoes?"

She looked down and then up at him like he was out of his mind. "What?"

"Heels. You never have any problems running in heels."

"Well, first of all, these are pumps," she said, drawing one trouser leg up and  
turning her pretty foot to one side. She wore black suede two inch lace-ups  
which must have cost a mint. "And second, natural born talent," she gathered  
purse and laptop, stepped towards the door, stepped back again. "Why?"

Mulder shrugged. "It's been bugging me for years, and every time I remembered  
to ask you weren't around. Didn't seem worth waking you up at two in the  
morning for."

"Got that right," she muttered. "You don't mind if I leave my bag here?"

"Course not," he was about to offer her the use of his car, but then thought  
better of it. She read his mind yet again, though, and said,

"I've already called a taxi. See you later." 

He took a break in the middle of the afternoon, made yet more soup even though  
he really wanted a burger and fries. He was hungry, but more solid food didn't  
seem like an especially wise idea. Thankfully Scully called and saved him from  
the tedium of filling out the expense report.

"Mulder, it's me."

He leaned back in his chair, regretted it immediately as his bruised kidney took  
offense.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Word just came down from Vermont - they got Kaspar."

"Where did they catch him?"

"You won't believe this, but Mae Lincoln brought him in."

"Is she alright?" 

"She's fine. Apparently he turned up on her back porch, hungry and tired."

"So much for the mountain man surviving on his own."

"Two skeletons were found inside the car outside of the sugarhouse. One's been  
identified as Guillaume LaGrange, a forty-five year old father of eight who  
disappeared in '92 on his way home from a conference in Nashua, New Hampshire.  
The other was Leland Smith, an eighteen year old college student hiking the  
Appalachian Trail, also lost in '92."

"One might say he was a little off the beaten path, eh?"

"You're losing your touch, Mulder. Marks on the bone would seem to indicate  
tool marks, although it's difficult to be absolutely positive at this stage."

"Bambi's revenge?" he quipped.

Scully ignored him. "The really good news is that Sheriff Whitlow's come out of  
the coma. So far it doesn't look as if he's going to have any permanent damage,  
but only time will tell."

Mulder fiddled with a pen. "What about Crandall?" 

"He's alive," 

He grinned. "Unfortunately?"

She snorted. "I'm going straight home, Mulder, so I'll come by tomorrow to pick  
up my stuff, okay?"

"No problem. I'll bring it in - " 

"No, you won't. I don't want you straining your torso any more than you  
absolutely have to, so that means no heavy lifting."

"Scully, when was the last time I ever disobeyed doctor's orders? No, wait,  
don't answer that."

"Does this mean you're going to listen to me for once?"

Mulder sighed. "Yes. Don't let it get to your head."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't say you want me  
> don't say you need me   
> Don't say you love me  
> it's understood
> 
> Don't say you're happy   
> out there without me  
> I know you can't be  
> 'cause it's no good" 
> 
> Depeche Mode/It's No Good/House Collection (comp)  
> (Paul Oakenfold Rare Mix)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scully's suit. You know the [one](http://xfdryad.livejournal.com/22652.html) I mean.

Mulder reluctantly got out of his car, hoped Scully wouldn't comment on his   
foolishness. He'd figured painkillers would get him through the day, but he'd   
been wrong, oh-so-wrong. What was even worse was the fact that he'd had to resort to   
Scullyism's - "I'm fine," he'd said on numerous occasions throughout the day,   
not that she believed him. She'd just pursed her lips and gave him sharp   
glances every time he winced, smugly ignored the way he had to lean on his desk   
to get up by the afternoon. God, she certainly knew how to make her point. And   
if she offered to get him anything else that required lifting or stretching he   
was going to have to take revenge in one way or another as soon as he could   
think of something.

"Come on, slowpoke, I haven't got all night," she said, breezing past him   
insouciantly.

He followed, watched the delicate sway of her hips as she walked up the front   
steps of his apartment building. She was wearing his second favorite skirt   
suit, the one that fell below the knee and had a long slit which exposed the   
back of her leg with each stride. Best of all, it was that peculiar shade of   
gray, he didn't know its name, but it was a cross between storm and lead.   
Whatever the color, it turned her hair into gold-streaked flame, her skin   
alabaster, her eyes, well, as cliche as it was, a man could easily drown.

Scully turned and looked at him, brows drawn down quizzically. "What?"

Breaking out his keys, he said, "Nothing." 

While she got her bag he changed into jeans and a white pullover, contemplated   
taking another painkiller. Lord, he wasn't going to do anything tonight except   
make himself comfortable on the couch, maybe catch up on all those back issues   
of UFO UK and Abductee International. Both hands on his lower back, he headed   
out of his bedroom.

"You are taking tomorrow off, right?" she said, eyeing him with a frown.

"Uh hunh. I've learned my lesson."

"As well you should."

He trailed her to the door as she slowed and put her bag down. She looked up   
at him shyly beneath lowered lashes, which always made his breath catch in his   
throat. Damn, how did she do that? And why did she look so serious? "Something   
else I can do for you, Scully?"

"Yeah..." 

She put one hand on his chest, leaned forward and kissed him chastely on the   
lips. Mulder stared at the top of her bent head. She stood in front of him,   
refusing to meet his eyes, leaving him in ignorance as to the cause of this   
sudden shift. Did she think he was unwilling to explore the unknown? He wanted   
to touch those bee-stung lips again, but there was a question to be answered,   
first. "Why? Why now? Why after six months?"

Scully contemplated his shirt, looked down at her clasped hands. "I was   
exploring my options."

Bitterness and bad memories flew out of his mouth. "Oh yeah? What's his name?"

She said, very softly, "Anonymous."

Mulder rubbed his face with both hands. Could he fuck this up anymore, whatever   
'this' was? He wanted to apologize, he wanted her to forget what he had just   
said, he wanted her to understand he wasn't angry with her, although he was, if   
he was brutally honest with himself. He wanted her to lay it on the line.   
"What the hell does that mean?"

"I...needed to..." she shrugged helplessly, finally looking at him. "I don't   
know what I needed. To regroup, I guess. I don't - "

"Scully, you're not making any sense," he interrupted, silently berating himself   
for his assumptions. _Fool_ , he raged, breaking away to pace in front of his   
computer. He felt sick. There had been no guarantee that what had happened one   
weekend in June would ever happen again. He had fallen into the same old man-  
trap as always. But he wasn't the boy he used to be, nor was she the kind of   
woman to toy with a man for the sake of her own amusement. Get this thing over   
with, man, ponder it all later. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"I wanted to see," she slowly began. "If I could still work with you without   
being distracted."

Mulder put his hands on his hips in the tremendous effort to hold himself back   
from slamming his fist against the wall. Son of a _bitch_. "You don't give me   
any credit for self-restraint, do you?"

" _Damnit_ , Mulder, this isn't about you!" she cried, stalking over to stand in   
front of him. "God _knows_ we probably have more self-restraint than any other two   
people on the face of the goddamned planet, but that's _not_ what I'm talking   
about here!"

"What, then?" he rasped back, stepping closer to tower above her. "Just tell me,   
one way or the other, Scully, what you want. Do you even know?"

"As a matter of fact, I _do_ ," she snapped. "I always have, but until a few   
moments before a bee stung me on the back of the neck in that outer hallway I   
wasn't sure what you wanted!"

Jesus H. Christ. On a gods-be-damned Pogo stick.

"Mulder," Eyes bright, Scully swallowed and grasped his hand, stroked the   
knuckles lightly with her thumb. "I knew you cared about me, loved me. You've   
saved my life...you're the most compassionate man I know. Loyal to a fault,   
honest beyond reproach. I trust you as I trust no one else. Yet for all that,   
until that moment you never gave me a sign that we could have something beyond   
the merely physical, beyond work. And now, this year - _shit_. I'm not saying   
this right, this isn't coming out right," She covered her eyes with her free   
hand and shook her head. "I can't find the words - "

He'd been too subtle. Once upon a time, he had put his heart out on a silver   
platter, never seeing the skewer or the spit he was subsequently roasted on.   
Lesson learned, the next time he'd been more careful, and not shown how much   
he'd been smitten, yet had still failed to keep himself intact. He'd been   
lucky, though, in that he'd been taken at face value. He'd thought he'd learned   
control by the time Scully arrived in his life. She'd snuck in somehow, crept   
into the cracks and crevices which age and stress had put in the walls around   
his heart, and had held him together when everyone else had left and forgotten   
his very existence. He'd responded by showing her his intentions in all but the   
most obvious of ways. 

Fool, fool, thrice again a fool. Pulling her into his embrace, he pressed his   
lips to her hair, inhaling the faded odor of her conditioner before resting his   
chin on top of her head. "We're a pair, aren't we?"

Scully put her arms around his waist and carefully hugged him back. He was   
happy to stand with her, body to body, holding on tight to this promise of   
companionship if nothing else. Anger at his own stupidity gradually drained   
away to be replaced with fear-spiked contentment. He rubbed her back slowly,   
listened to her croon with pleasure as he worked her sore muscles. Eventually   
he became aware that she was kissing his chest and the base of his neck. He   
reciprocated with little brushes of his lips on her hairline, forehead,   
cheekbones, until their mouths met in the middle.

After awhile he straightened, a little lightheaded and in no small amount of   
pain. He made a face and pulled away a bit, regarded her steadily. "I, um,   
don't think I can do this right now."

If anything, she looked relieved. "Me neither. Although you've worked wonders,   
my neck and back are still killing me. And I should go, I've got things to do."

As always. He smiled, she smiled, and everything was all right with the world   
once more. Maybe it was a fragile peace, but he was convinced their   
relationship was such that it would only be made the stronger for it. She was   
the only person he knew with whom he could both fight and cry with, yet still   
love and be loved. The only one who knew him well enough to hurt him more than   
anyone else in the entire world.

One corner of her mouth curled up slyly. "Before I leave, I have a proposal for   
you, should you choose to accept it."

"Ah, I know this one! I accept, I accept."

"Without even knowing what it is?" Her eyebrows were raised, but she looked   
delighted.

"You know me, I can charge right in without thought for the specifics."

"Mm." 

"And...?" Hands still on her hips, he shook her a little bit. 

"We wait until we're feeling better."

He blinked. Didn't sound impossible to him.

She laid a finger against his mouth. "But you can't touch yourself until then."

"Jesus, Scully," Could he actually last that long considering the night's   
events? "And yourself?"

She was innocence personified. "Same deal."

He eyed her suspiciously. "You seem thrilled at the prospect."

She gave him a smug little smile. "It'll be easier for me. Different plumbing."

And very nice plumbing it was, too. Releasing his grasp on her, he once more   
walked over and opened the door, stepped back. "Then I guess it's good night."

Saying nothing, she picked up her bag and headed to the elevator, waggling the   
fingers of one hand as the doors closed. 

He sighed, sternly told his body to improve as rapidly as   
possible.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are so many tomorrows  
> that I'm never sure   
> until, my love,  
> You're mine   
>  once more" 
> 
> The Orb/Once More/Cydonia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detective Quinnan comes from [How She Is So Fair and Bonny](http://dazzleships.net/puritycontrol/fic-how-she-is-so-fair-bonny/).

Mulder kicked the door closed, dropped his bag on the floor, hung up his coat.   
His back ached. Two field cases in two weeks and his brain felt like mush. His   
body wasn't too happy, either. At least his pee wasn't bloody any more. Yeah,   
he was healing nicely, although his hip was still bruised. In his bedroom he   
changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. The couch was calling his name more loudly   
than the kitchen, and he laid down with a sigh, leaving the lights off. A   
moment later the phone rang. 

"Go away," he moaned as the machine did its thing.

"Mulder, it's - "

He lunged up and grabbed the handset. "I'm here. Where are you?"

"Home. I missed getting on your flight by a measly ten minutes."

"More's the pity." 

"Tell me about it," she said, grunting a little. "I was in the middle, and you   
know how much I hate being in the middle."

He smiled, put his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch   
back. It had to be window or aisle with her, although she always switched with   
him if he didn't get the aisle and she did. 

"What's worse, I'm surrounded by the freshmen girls from hell. I'm not kidding,   
Mulder. Four hours debating the merits of N'Sync versus the Backstreet Boys and   
whether or not burritos are better than tacos. If they're supposed to be our   
future, I say we let the aliens take over."

He laughed out loud. "You mean you weren't the same your first year in college?"

Dead silence. "I'm going to forget you ever asked me that."

Oo, dangerous waters. 

"I'm sure you had your moments as well," she grumbled. 

"I never," he said, grinning. He heard rustling in the background. "What are   
you doing?"

"I just went shopping."

Hm, take advantage of the open door and risk her hanging up on him? Nah, he   
liked hearing her voice.

"I needed something fresh to eat, y'know? Damn, my ice cream's starting to   
melt."

"Well, I s'pose I'll let you get cracking. See you on Monday, Scully."

"'Kay." 

He hung up. Food was a good idea. A brief scavenge in the kitchen provided an   
apple, sliced and smeared with the last of the crunchy peanut butter, and a mint   
Snapple iced tea. It was enough to hold him while he did the laundry and ran a   
few errands. In the basement he loaded up the machine, then ran out to do a   
drop off and pick up at the dry cleaners, read the July/August double issue of   
UFO UK while his clothes dried. Another fifteen minutes for folding, and he was   
done. 

Back upstairs, he heard the faint strains of Zero 7 coming through his door,   
which he'd locked. And his gun was in the living room. He put the basket and   
SwiffyKleen bag on the floor, cautiously stood out of the line of fire as he   
gently turned the brass knob. No one sprang out at him. Quietly moving inside,   
he closed the door and practically jumped out of his skin when a familiar face   
appeared. 

Scully wiped her hands on a dishcloth, viewed him with amused concern. "You   
okay, Mulder?"

He nodded sharply, fearing his voice would crack if he tried to speak, not that   
she was fooled, judging by the set of her eyebrows.

"I used my key."

No shit. Mulder retrieved his laundry and deposited it in the bedroom, Scully a   
few steps behind. She watched him hang the bag in the closet, shove underwear   
and socks willy nilly into the bureau.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," she said softly.

"What are you doing here, Scully?" he asked, unable to meet her eyes. She   
was giving him that look, he just knew it, and he couldn't handle it. "I thought   
you were fixing yourself dinner."

"I didn't feel like eating alone."

He stopped, shirt unfolding itself in his hands. What the hell was happening   
inside her pretty little head? It wasn't like her to simply show up at his   
apartment and let herself in, not when he wasn't away. She smiled at him   
guilelessly and left the room. Hell if he was ever going to figure her out.   
When he was finished with the laundry, he changed into plaid drawstring sleeping   
pants and a ratty UNLV tee. In the living room he flopped on the couch and   
closed his eyes. Zero 7 ended, but he didn't feel like getting up and putting   
in another cd.

The clicking of Scully's heels came closer, stopped. "You want the tv on?"

"Yeah, thanks." 

"How about some dinner?"

He cracked open one eyelid. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes or no?" she asked, turning the sound low.

He hesitated. It hadn't been his imagination, she had been unusually solicitous   
ever since her arrival in San Francisco. Because of Detective Quinnan? Nah,   
they'd gotten along fabulously, once Quinnan had gotten over her reticence.   
Toby, nice name for a woman. Besides, Quinnan hadn't even hit on him.

"Earth to Mulder." 

"What are you making?" 

"Lasagne, salad."

"Sounds yummy," he said. Not that it mattered, whatever she made was bound to   
be good, although it felt decidedly odd, her cooking for him - for them - in his   
apartment. Things had changed between them after their...conversation. She'd   
gone on her camping trip with Bill, although he wasn't sure she'd enjoyed it.   
The friends Bill had brought along, Giles Darling and Rob Petrie - Rob Petrie! -   
sounded like complete jerks. Apparently she'd had to kick a little ass at the   
general store, arresting two dumb cracks who didn't have a synapse to rub   
between them, given that they'd tried to rob the place with a novelty lighter   
and a bottle of RC Cola. Shit, he'd have loved to seen their faces when they'd   
been busted. Scully with a gun was frighteningly intense, very erotic. He'd   
certainly entertained the fantasy before, completely at her will. No whips or   
chains or anything like that, just Scully in her black trouser suit and him in a   
pair of handcuffs. Oh yeah. 

Well hello there, he wasn't as tired as he'd thought. The only lights in the   
room came from the tv and the fish tank. Half the excitement was in the risk,   
hoping she'd notice the battle of the bulge, so to speak. He opened one eye,   
glanced down - his pants tented a little more. Resisting the urge to give   
himself a firm couple of strokes - he'd promised, after all - he turned his mind   
to other things. Like Scully in that blue and white outfit she'd worn in June.   
Scully sleeping in his bed in plum pj's. Scully naked, period.

Mulder sighed in frustration. Something other than her...Toby Quinnan.   
Although he hadn't told her, he'd written a strong commendation to her   
superiors, and suggested they point her towards the agency should she ever   
appear to waver over her choice of career. So like Scully, if ten years older.   
On the outside they were completely different. Dark versus light, the strength   
of an amazon versus the fragility of porcelain, yet both were tougher than nails   
outside and in, forthright, outspoken, fiercely intelligent, stunningly unaware   
of their own beauty. 

He dozed fitfully, catching an occasional burst of noise from the commercials   
they swore the volume wasn't turned up on, the fainter sounds of cursing and   
clink of dishes from the kitchen. Every now and then he roused, surprised it   
wasn't his imagination. He unashamedly basked in contentment, ignoring any   
anxious thoughts. Yeah, his apartment had been trashed, and those bastards   
Krycek and Cancerman had both made themselves more than comfortable on the   
occasion, but he'd somehow managed to retain his sense of home-equals-safety.   
He refused to allow their intrusions to destroy his security...although they had   
done their best.

Air wafted across Mulder's face, once, twice, then the couch gave way at his   
side as Scully sat down. He kept his eyes closed, happy to be in her presence.   
She shifted again, maybe looking down at him. He'd done the same plenty of   
times. In the car, when she fell asleep in the passenger seat, on planes, over   
morning coffee in the office. Nonetheless, he was shocked by the featherlight   
brush of lips on his cheek. Maybe she'd do it again if he feigned inattention.   
Another kiss, this one further along, closer to his left ear. He must have   
given some indication that he was awake, for he felt a finger on his mouth.

"Shh." 

He gasped. Still leaning over him, she sucked on his earlobe ever so briefly.   
Desire, which had fled in the midst of his dozing, returned with a vengeance.   
He had the feeling that she didn't want his interference, though. Well,   
whatever floated her boat, as long as she didn't stop.

Scully peppered his face with little kisses, trailed her tongue down his neck.   
She uncrossed his arms, whispered, "Put your hands behind your back. And keep   
your eyes closed."

Wondering what she was up to, he quickly complied. Maybe she shared his   
handcuff fantasy? Of course if she had it was probably for completely different   
reasons. Laughter bubbled up in him at the thought, only to be chased away at   
the sensation of heat and moisture on his chest. He squirmed, arched when she   
grazed her teeth on his nipple through his tee. First the one, then the other,   
until the pleasure verged on pain.

She pulled his shirt up, caressed him from armpit to waist a few times until   
he'd gotten control - ha - over his breathing. Of course he lost it again when   
she stroked the length of him, nails teasing through the flannel. Once she had   
him wriggling and practically begging for more, she loosed the drawstring and   
took him in her warm hands. Eyes closed, he reminded himself, hastily   
squinching them shut after the initial surprise of her mouth enveloping him in   
one smooth swoop. He couldn't keep his hands away from her after that. 

Strands of silk slipped between his fingers as he ran one hand through her hair.   
She wasn't familiar yet with all of his likes and dislikes, but her guesses were   
damn fine. Even the occasional scrape of her teeth was exciting, proof of where   
she was and god, what she was doing. Plenty of women had told him how much they   
hated the sudden thrust into their mouths, the clamp of hands in their hair, so   
he bit his lower lip and somehow managed to keep from grabbing her head and   
forcing it down.

Oh, she knew what she was doing...the advantage of being a doctor? Or merely   
being a woman? And whatever the hell was she doing with her tongue, it was   
certainly working! Moist heat swallowed him whole and pulled further   
contemplation right out of his skull. His balls tightened, waves of pleasure   
swamping his gut while his legs trembled. One of her hands joined the action   
with her mouth until she was working him like a Tootsie Pop. How many licks   
would it take - not very damn many. He lost all control and bucked up, crying   
out her name. She let him calm down before drawing his pants up and his shirt   
down, making him flinch when she patted his belly.

There was no way Mulder could let her go without showing his...appreciation   
wasn't the right word. Gratitude? He couldn't think of one that didn't include   
a sense of obligation, which was far from how he felt. And undying respect   
didn't really cut it either. 'Dear Scully, you know how much I respect you for   
that blowjob, right?' God. He caught her arm and pulled her down to face   
level, kissed her deeply, tasting his own salty bitterness on her tongue. 

Scully understood, acknowledgement of the unspeakable present in her gaze. She   
smiled, pleased at having pleased him. "Why don't you get some sleep until   
dinner's ready."

Dinner, shminner. "You could lie down with me instead," he suggested.

"No," she said, getting to her feet. "I've still got a salad to make."

Oh, there was no arguing with her when it came to food. Besides, it would give   
him time to think, ponder his plan of action. 'Plan of Action', christ, what was   
he, fifteen? He'd like to meet the man who could get Scully to do anything she   
didn't want to do. On second thought, he wouldn't, because then she wouldn't be   
the person he thought he knew. What would he be like, that man, that stranger?   
He'd hate to see her obedient. 

Mulder sighed, flicked through the sports channels. Juventus versus Manchester   
United. Celtics versus Lakers. Curling. Curling? Olympic preview show.   
Summer X-Games highlights - how appropriate. He winced all throughout the   
Thrills 'n' Spills segment, Scully wincing too after bringing out two plates   
loaded with food and a glass of wine for herself.

After watching yet another kid literally kiss the ground after landing badly on   
the Vert Bike segment, she grabbed the remote and muttered under her breath   
until she found Comedy Central. They practically laughed themselves sick   
through Spaced and The League of Gentlemen and Whose Line Is It Anyway?, British   
comedy apparently appealing to both of them. Odd, how he knew both so much and   
so little about her. He wondered if she felt the same about him. 

"Hey!" She abruptly leapt to her feet.

"Jesus, Scully, where's the fire?"

She stared down at him in wide-eyed innocence. Yeah, pure as the driven gravel.

"I forgot the ice cream."

Okay, he could see her point. Still, though, no reason to give a guy a heart   
attack. He followed her into the kitchen and spooned himself an extra huge   
helping of New York Super Fudge Chunk, followed her back into the living room.   
Sighing from the chocolate overload of the first spoonful, he said, "Scully, you   
_are_ a goddess."

She smirked.

An hour later she was fast asleep, head pillowed on the armrest. Mulder quietly   
gathered their empty dishes and took them into the kitchen, rinsed them off.   
Washing could wait for the morning. He turned the tv off, debated whether or   
not he should wake her or cover her with the blanket. She might want to go   
home. Crouching down, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Scully, hey."

"Mph, g'way," she mumbled, pulling a pillow over her head.

He grinned and tucked her in, turned off the light. He snagged a clean tee,   
contemplated an old pair of boxers before grabbing them too and going into the   
bathroom to perform his nightly ablutions. He left the shirt and boxers on the   
edge of the tub, in case she wanted to change. She probably wouldn't have   
minded if he'd gone searching for pj's in her emergency bag, but he didn't want   
to invade her privacy. Lord, he was tired. 

He struggled out of sleep as the mattress dipped. "Scully?"

"You should have woken me," she murmured, snuggling up to his side.

"Um, you were pretty out of it."

"Mm."

Mulder lay still, felt her muscles relax, her breathing slow. He didn't think   
she even realized she'd thrown her arm across his chest. Unfortunately, lying   
on his back still wasn't all that comfortable a position. Moving slowly, he   
turned to face her, stopping when she tightened her grip and tucked her head   
under his chin. Lovely. 

Apart from Scully, he hadn't cuddled with a woman in a long time. The night   
with Diana didn't count. He considered it part of the madness of those few   
days. Enjoyable, in a stress relieving kind of way, but ultimately forgettable,   
nothing more than a one night stand with a woman he used to know.

Diana Fowley. What had happened to her? Where had her idealism gone? Had it   
ever really been there? Had she lied to him from the very beginning? No, he   
couldn't believe that, she had been a believer. 

Hadn't she? 

And what the hell had he been thinking? No, that wasn't fair either. Finally   
being able to unobtrusively search for Samantha while legitimately exploring the   
realm of the paranormal had been a heady experience. Combined with his fevered   
desire to forget everything he'd gone through when working with the ISU, was it   
any wonder he'd lost his bearings? It was a miracle he'd been able to dress   
himself, never mind worrying about his partner's honesty.

Indeed, he'd accepted her at face value, that's how far gone he'd been. How   
innocent, how naive. Boogeymen hadn't yet been discovered as real. Monsters   
had been no more than tales told to frighten misbehaving children. And, truth   
be told, he'd taken what Diana offered without a second thought. A beautiful,   
intelligent woman, who'd looked at him as if were a whole person. Curious. A   
believer.

Was that the reason why he'd been so devastated when she'd left? She'd left the   
X-Files, but she'd left him as well. He'd hidden his hurt by doing what had   
always worked previously - he'd buried himself in the work, his work. She had   
believed in him...right? Would he have noticed if she hadn't? Would it have   
even mattered, ultimately, so long as she came to his bed warm and willing? 

He sighed and restlessly moved his legs. What an ass he'd been. The Great   
Profiler, the wunderkind who could figure out everyone else's motives except his   
own. He had been obsessed with his work...hadn't he? Or had he simply ignored   
the fact that she needed love and attention, too? He hated to think he could   
have been so callous of another person's feelings, and he hoped he hadn't   
treated Scully in the same manner. But she'd stuck with him for seven years,   
and Diana was gone, so he must have changed...right? Time to let it go?

"Mul'r - "

"Hm?" He was pretty sure Scully was dreaming. She didn't say anything further,   
rolled over out of his reach. Here he was, mulling over Diana when Scully was   
lying next to him. Yeah, time to let it go. Sleep, fool, sleep.

Mulder gradually became aware of several things: he was half-erect,he was   
spooning Scully, and she was awake, rocking her hips in a barely perceptible   
motion. The delicate scent of her arousal reached his hindbrain, which   
promptly kicked his autonomic nervous system into high gear. He opened his   
mouth to say something witty, came out with, "What time is it?"

She went perfectly still, and in a very quiet voice, said, "A little after   
four."

He frantically searched his memory, which in this instance was fuzzy at best.   
"I don't recall you being naked, earlier?"

"I got hot," she whispered.

Apparently. He slipped his arm around her waist, let his fingers drift over the   
sweet soft swell of her belly, barren cradle that it was. Up to her ripe   
breasts, nipples already taut with anticipation. He rolled one between his   
fingers, heard her quick inhalation. Nuzzling the back of her neck, he blew her   
hair away to expose exquisitely sensitive skin. He plundered the area with his   
tongue, despoiled its paleness with his teeth. He was careful not to bruise,   
she wouldn't want to be marked any place which could be seen in public.   
Sometimes he wished he could hang a big sign around her neck - 'PROPERTY OF FOX   
MULDER'. 

Oh yeah, that would go over well. 

She'd once accused him of being territorial, and it was true. He was only   
human, after all. Little nips on her ear made her squirm and shiver and turn   
her head to kiss him.

Her oversensitized nipple softened a bit, and he left it alone, hand creeping   
down to the vee between her thighs. Gentle caresses through damp curls, nothing   
more, until she moved flat on her back with a sighed moan. She lifted a knee to   
manouver better, wound one hand around his neck and pulled him down for a deep   
kiss.

He loved the way she said his name. It was a plea, a warning, and a benediction   
all rolled into one mellifluous sound. Finally he dipped one finger into the   
dense pool of liquid, swirled more moisture through the hot folds of flesh. If   
only a light were on, so he could see her face clearly. Her sighs and   
exhalations told him what she liked, her hungry kisses proof of her need for   
this, for him.

Dexterity was an issue, for he simply wasn't used to using his left hand for   
intimacies of this nature, and she was very antsy. She kept reaching down yet   
pulled back repeatedly at the last instant. The one finger thing was good, but   
it was making his wrist ache. He made a loose fist and lightly dragged his   
knuckles up and down. The effect was instantaneous.

Scully grabbed his upper arm and froze. "Mulder - jesus - "

Ah. He went geometric, teased her with triangles, trapezoids, squares and   
pentagons. High-pitched whimpers dripped like honey from her lips. He ran his   
fingers over the cowl of her most tender spot every time she attempted to kiss   
him, happily watched her arch away from the pleasure. The flush on her chest   
began to rise as he increased the pace of his circling, felt her arm grow slick   
with perspiration against his chest. She soundlessly jerked against his hand,   
then gasped his name once more.

When the storm had passed, she gazed at him with a shy little smile.

"You liked that, hunh," he teased, cupping his palm over her sex.

"Maybe," she said, reaching for his hip. She tugged until he lay between her   
thighs, brought her knees up to her chest. 

Who was he to argue? Back bedamned, he entered her twice at the same time, mouth   
to mouth, part A in slot B. She was heaven, slick, hot, clamping down on him   
with each thrust. The fact that he could make her moan amazed him anew.   
Although this was not the best position for her, June being an extraordinary   
exception, she'd assured him that it did feel good, that she liked having his   
weight upon her, that if he ever hurt her she'd let him know.

"Move, Mulder, move," she demanded, gripping his lower back tightly.

Oh, his intentions were good, but she kept urging him on with her voice and her   
mouth, licking and biting wherever she could reach, from the inside of his wrist   
to his chest, stopping only when he was slamming into her so hard he thought the   
bed might break.

He came with a hoarse cry, almost ill from the sheer pleasure of his release.   
He collapsed on top of her, desperate for air while she licked his neck.   
Finally he managed to move to over, curled up on his side and watched her watch   
him, inhaled the musk of sweat and semen.

Tracing his lips with her fingers, Scully softly said, "Diana loved you."

Mulder sighed, rolled onto his back. "You've been reading my mind again,   
Scully."

She was silent, but her hand moved on to stroke his cheek.

"I...used her. I wish I could say I didn't know it at the time, but I..." He   
trailed off and sighed again. "I hate to think I knew better and did it anyway."

She shrugged. "Without her, we wouldn't be here now. And somehow, Mulder, I   
can't believe that you didn't return her affection in one way or another.   
Perhaps not in the manner she wanted, but I don't doubt you cared."

If she believed, maybe he could too. She turned her back to him, and a moment   
later he curled around her, held her tight. "Scully...never think..."

"I know," she murmured, bringing his hand up to kiss his palm. "Me too."

Mulder sent a silent prayer to the universe for this greatest of blessings, the   
woman in his arms who soothed his very soul. Oona's face flashed through his   
mind, and he made another prayer, for the woman who had comforted him with her   
body and was now, hopefully, comforted herself. 

~*~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
'"The Trego's, we realized that Watkins had been attacked by what the Algonquin   
call a manitou, an evil spirit capable of changing a man into a beast. To be   
attacked by a manitou causes the victim to become one...a manitou overtakes a   
man by night, not by full moon. But when its blood lust builds to an   
uncontrollable level, the man changes to a sickening creature. It kills,   
releasing savage energy...The cycle begins anew the next day. This continues   
until death."'  
Ish, "Shapes" 1X18  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Author's Notes: Whew, this was a long one! I hadn't known Diana was going to   
show up, but I guess she was on Mulder's mind, Scully's too. Go figure, eh? In   
my world Mulder isn't color blind, otherwise Scully's hair wouldn't be so darned   
purty. Lincoln, Waterloo, and North Attlee are the products of my imagination.   
For the purposes of storytelling, I've ignored the high probability of Vermont   
having a Mobile Crime Lab.

I highly recommend John Douglas and Robert Ressler's books on violent crime.   
Their books are informative, interesting, and very disturbing. Read at your own   
risk. I could not have written 'Manitou' without the aid of Douglas' 'The   
Anatomy of Motive'. Everyone should read Gavin De Becker's book.

2/13   
Radiation poisoning - from 'Lightning', a story I wrote A Very Long Time Ago in a   
previous incarnation (DeviXF). Archived at EMXC. Plotting is a good thing.

3/13   
The Skatellites and Mephiskapheles are ska bands from Massachusetts. The real   
Chat 'N' Chew is a diner around Ludlow, Vermont, while the Sud's 'N' Bud's bar-  
laundromat is, I believe, in Bellows Falls. Vermont did not get 911 until 1999.

4/13   
Chicken story - p. 46, The Anatomy of Motive. Douglas, John and Mark Olshaker,   
Simon and Schuster, 1999. UVM - University of Vermont.

6/13  
'Accelerated Decrepitude' is, of course, the disease JS has in 'Blade Runner'.

7/13  
Intuition and Victimology - The Gift of Fear. De Becker, Gavin

9/13  
Ramirez quote - p. 169, The Last Victim. Moss, Jason and Jeffrey Kottler,Warner,   
1999

10/13 (!)  
Dream Inuit borrowed from the movie 'Nomads' 

11/13  
Black lace-ups like the goo-eaten ones Scully shows Mulder in 'Colony' 2X16

12/13  
'Abductee' magazine is the product of another author, whose name and story I   
completely forget - if you know who you are, tell me so I can give you the   
credit. I came up with the International version.

13/13   
UNLV - University of Las Vegas


End file.
